Shattered Mirrors
by partypenguina3
Summary: Like the Wizard of Oz, as portrayed in Wicked, those labeled "bad" are not truly always the ones who are evil. History is written by the victors, or in this case, those who were there to tell the story and not lurking under an opera house. Every motive you've ever heard in the musical/book was a painful exaggeration by none other than our favorite spoil-sport. Brief Humor. E/C
1. Prologue

**A/N: Yes, the prologue has been updated. It's been changed quite a bit, actually. **

_Paris, 1909_

Gaston Leroux was staring out the window at the rickety carriage that had rolled up to his house's front door.

While he had been watching it pull up, he had seen it wobble from side to side on its broken down wheels. The sides were scuffed and dirty, with chunks of wood missing in some parts. The coat of arms on the door was faded. The side facing his window lacked a handle on the door, and it was pulled by a mangy… mule?

Leroux chuckled to himself. Certainly, this was the man he had been told about. It was widely known that the de Chagnys had gone practically bankrupt a long time ago. Now as to why that had happened… Leroux's eyes wandered to a section of wallpaper that was slightly out of alignment with the surrounding paper. The Vicomte's version would be very interesting indeed…

Picking up his notebook, Ledoux settled down in his favorite chair and awaited his guest.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Mind my legs, you idiot! Just get me into the damn contraption already!" Raoul snarled at his servant. The man hurriedly shifted his employer into the awaiting wheelchair, careful not to injure him in the process. Raoul grunted his approval and squirmed a bit before tapping his cane against the wheel in annoyance for having to wait even a fraction of a second. Sighing in relief at having avoided the vengeful wrath of his employer's cane, the servant began to push the wheelchair up towards the entrance.

Raoul's eyes shifted about nervously. Something didn't seem quite right. His eyes scoured the area for any sign of danger, but seeing none, he chastised himself. Of course nothing was wrong. There never was, yet he had lived in such paranoia for so long that suspicion had become second nature.

The wheelchair bounced over rocks as the pair rolled up to the front door. A shiny silver plaque hung on the right wall, bearing the name Gaston Leroux. Raoul squinted. There was something strange about the 'r' in the name: there were faint traces in the surrounding area that didn't match the rest of the plate. Before he had a chance to examine the sign more closely, the front door swung open before him and he was pushed inside.

Across the room from his, a well dressed gentleman arose from his chair and spread his arms in welcome. "Hello! Welcome to my humble abode. It's such a pleasure to meet you at last, Vicomte de Chagny." There was a slight pause as their host's smile grew wider. "I've heard such _wonderful_ things about the things you did. I'm sure that your knowledge will help my book so much."

Raoul cleared his throat nervously and scratched at his face in discomfort. "Ah, well, yes… I did do some great things in my youth… But, um, about that money I was promised, Monsieur…?"

The man's smile grew wider again. "Oh! Of course! How silly of me, I have it right over here," he gestured to a table where bills of francs were stacked high. Raoul's eyes popped open. "I'm sure that will be enough, yes?" A vigorous nod was answer enough for him. "Perfect! I'm Monsieur Leroux, by the way. Come, let's sit by my chair."

When they were settled, Leroux opened his notebook and picked up a pen; turning to Raoul, he simply stared at his for a few moments. Prior to requesting the Vicomte's presence, Leroux had searched for all the information he could find about him. He knew that the Vicomte had been a handsome man in his youth, but his appearance now was astounding for a man of his age. While there did appear to be some wrinkles, the face had remained relatively youthful and unchanged. And, well… waxy and large.

De Chagny's head was clearly oversized. His skin was pale and had a distinct waxy shine to it. Leroux was taken aback –none of the pictures he had seen of the Vicomte had suggested his head was this disproportional to the rest of his body. The rest of his body clearly displayed signs of age: his hands were crooked and arthritic, his torso was slumped, and his leg muscles were too shriveled to be used often, hence the wheelchair.

"Um… wow… your face looks exactly like all of the old pictures of you I've seen. Do you mind sharing a few tips on retaining youthfulness before we begin? From middle aged man to another, eh?" A dark chuckle echoed around the room; Raoul's pupils noticeably dilated.

"Did… did you hear that?'

Leroux put on his best poker face. "Hear what? I heard nothing. Anyways… how about we begin your story? I'd like to get this started as fast as possible."

The Vicomte de Chagny perked up noticeably. "Well, it all began when I was generous enough to become a patron of the Palais Garnier. I was –and am- very influential in Parisian society, you see. Now, after I began supporting the opera house…"

Leroux leaned back in his chair and worked his hardest not to roll his eyes at the huge ego Raoul had. Paying little attention to Raoul's pompous story, Leroux lost himself in memories of the true story…

Prologue

A little girl knelt at the side of a newly covered grave.

The center of her world, the one who gave her the love of music, the one who played violin while she sang, the only person she had left. Her father. And now even he had left her, carried off by tuberculosis. She was unable to save her father from this dreadful fate; Christine could not fight the infection that took his lungs; Christine could not do anything but hold her father's head in her lap as he breathed his last.

It made her feel so weak to have so little control over her life. She was only ten, but she had always had a lot of freedom to make her own decisions, as her father was often occupied with practicing and the arduous task of keeping the two of them alive. Ever since her mother had died in childbirth, Christine became the focal point of his life, and he did everything in his power to make her happy, keep her belly full, and her body warm. He worked hard as a farmhand, and any other odd jobs he could pick up to make some extra pocket money. There was always so much they had to buy, and so little extra money they had left over.

Charles Daae had been a hard worker, expert violinist, loving father, and whole hearted provider. He had given Christine everything that he could, and every moment he had spent with her had been full of adoring smiles and musical delight. She was his protégé, he had spent countless hours accompanying her on his violin, as he professed in utter conviction that the only way to sing well was to give her whole heart to the music.

In his final days this conviction had become forceful; he knew the end was approaching, and felt that he had to make sure his message had been solidly implanted in Christine's heart. Then he told her the story. He shared that when she had followed his instructions, when she had given her whole heart to the music, then the angel of music would come. The angel of music had come to him a long time ago, and had instilled in him the vigorous love and appreciation of violin that had led him to such nirvana in his playing. The musical love he fed Christine was not the only sustenance the violin provided; it also made him the majority of their money from weddings or parties.

She longed for such an angel, to give her a means of livelihood through music, to fill the hole that her father had left. She wanted the sweet love and adoration that music brings.

But now he was gone, and for the first time she felt the whole burden her father had been forced to bear come crashing down on her. How was she supposed to keep herself alive? All of her mother's family hated her and her father: the relatives believed they were the reason her mother was gone, and Christine would never be forgiven, much less welcomed into their homes. No, she would have to find her own way.

The only question was, how? What could she possibly do to provide for herself? She had no talents that were marketable per se, the only thing she could do well was sing, and nobody would want to hire a young girl with a sweet voice when there were so many other more experienced and more well-known singers.

However, that was the only idea she had, and she latched onto it tightly. She turned her head to the side and gazed in the direction of Paris. Yes, that was the only place left for her to go. She knew of the famous opera house, her father had always dreamed of saving enough to go there and find a place for him and Christine in the orchestra and the choir. He dreamed that one day, he would watch from the best seat in the house as his daughter, the Prima Donna, would walk across the stage singing so beautifully that everyone would fall in love with the music that had already claimed him.

Turning for one last look at his grave, she put her flowers on top and started her trek to the great city.


	2. Opera

_Chapter 1_

_Opera_

Christine shivered outside of the opera house.

It had been two weeks since her father's death. After his death, she had returned to the meager and shabby living space that had been granted to them by a local old woman, Madame Voltaille. She, the landlady, used to demanded many services for the "privilege" of living in the closet that served as the Daae home: Charles would play her violin concerts that lasted three hours each whenever she requested, Christine would clean her whole house, make her gourmet meals four times a day, bathe her, make any household repairs, walk her twelve cats, and knit the cats and herself matching scarves and accessories.

When she had returned, Madame Voltaille had flown into a fit of rage that she could no longer have her violin concerts, and then demanded Christine learn to play violin or else be kicked out.

Christine felt her choice was a rather obvious one.

She left during the night, bundled in the various woolen scarves, sweaters, and socks that she had been forced to knit over the years. Anything that she could fit into her canvas pack, she brought with her as well as several weeks supply of crackers and cold tea. She also brought her favorite cat, Sir Marque, and left a threatening note declaring that should Madame Voltaille attempt to come after her and reclaim her as a personal servant/cat-sitter, she would set all of the other cats free. And with that final flourish of defiance, she strolled down the road to Paris, a cat in one hand, a pack on her back, and in the other hand, the only fond memory she had left.

Of course she couldn't leave that violin behind.

Every night since her father had died she had taken it out of its case and set the bow gently to the strings, nestling the violin under her chin, sliding the bow gently across, plucking random strings in an attempt to make the violin recall the music her father had once drawn out of it. After less than ten minutes each time she had brought it out, she realized that she would never be able to charm the string instrument the way her father had been able to. Almost every night she gave up, hoping that tomorrow would bring her better luck.

After a little less than two weeks of sleeping underneath trees alongside the road, she spied the most beautiful city in all of Europe. When she first entered, she was astounded by many of the elegant buildings that blocked her view of the horizon. Christine reveled in staying in civilization again. She was travel worn and her dress was mussed; she had collapsed behind the closest house she could find when the tiring effects of her long journey finally took her. When she awoke, Christine realized that theoretically having several weeks of crackers and tea was not the same as really having several weeks of crackers and tea after a long journey and with a hungry cat to feed. Christine had stumbled amongst the poor of the city, going to churches and rich houses alike to beg whatever food she could get. Currently, her biggest prize was a banana.

That was when Christine had finally seen the opera house. It was even more magnificent than the stunning hand drawn pictures that her father had shown her. It was larger, each part she saw more and more intricate than the last. Angels, gargoyles, and religious figures crowded each side of the roof of the beautiful structure, culminating in a massive dome atop the building. It was easy to see how the opulently dressed nobles of Paris fit in perfectly here. The stairs leading to the entrance were filled with chattering people attempting to push their way through the building crowd towards two well dressed men standing behind a barricade at the top of the steps.

Christine shook her head and was called back to her senses. She couldn't continue standing around like this, she needed to make a decision and stick to it.

She slipped closer to the opera house; she realized that these were not people ambling about waiting to get into the opera. It was much too early in the day to be performing one, and they were all clamoring for the input of the two men and screaming questions louder and louder to drown out the others.

Initially frightened of this large crowd, she steeled herself and snatched her cat and violin off the ground where she had left them and marched toward the entrance. Shoving her way through the crowd using the violin case as a weapon, she heard more and more clamor about some mysterious events that had occurred earlier. It appeared that those here were either journalists for newspapers, or those who could not wait for the papers to come out to find about these supposed events that had taken place the previous night.

"It is true the stage hand is dead?" screamed one elderly man. "How can we trust you that it was an accident?" hollered another of the angry crowd. "Whodidthiswhatcanthismeanwhy can'tyoucontrolyourownoperawe'renotsafeanymore", the words mingled in Christine's head as her head began to spin with the rising din of the crowd. She looked up, only to see a somewhat familiar face appear next to the two men.

It was a young, about sixteen years old boy, well dressed and having the haughty air of a rich noble. His face was had a childish sweetness, almost like a cherubic in nature, but in his light blue eyes there was a hint of mischievousness. He shoved his way between the two men, and raising his hands to the crowd said "My patrons, my Parisians! We have all heard rumors of what has happened here. However, there is a distinct rumor between facts and rumors. There have been rumors that my dear managers, Andre and Firmin, are murderers. Rumors that _I_ am a murderer. Rumors that there was an accident. And most chillingly of all, rumors that the murderer is an elusive ghost that lives within the very walls of this opera house."

He took a breath while his message settled upon the crowd gathered before him. "Yes, a phantom. A man has been found dead. Hanging from the rafters above. A phantom surely lives in this opera house. A phantom, which cannot be caught. A phantom, who by nature, cannot be stopped. The only thing that can be done to stop the rage of this phantom is to follow his every whim for the opera house. While he may be a psychopathic killer, he does know music. The new opera that will be put on at this opera house will have his guidance, and perfection will be achieved. Perhaps some of those who attend this opera will glimpse him watching his opera."

The crowd began to rumble with excitement. They could no longer restrain themselves anymore; they began to clamber over the barricade and advanced towards the two managers and the young nobleman. Christine was swept up with the crowd, and to avoid being trampled pushed herself towards the front of the crowd. She yelled for the managers, demanding they acknowledge her presence.

The tall man on the right, Monsieur Firmin she assumed, turned and saw the young girl yelling their recently learned names. He paused, and turned to grab her elbow. He pulled her next to Andre and the boy, and the crowd abated slightly, curious as to why this girl had been pulled to the front.

"Ah! This is the very girl we have been looking for. We have much business to discuss about your career, Jacqueline!" Christine was swept into the grand carved wooden doors of the opera house with the three men.

Christine marveled at the beauty of the opera house. There were plush velvety seats covering the whole left side of the room, and there was a grand stage where people bustled about, moving scenery and practicing their singing or dancing or stage movements. Marble pillars lined the walls, stretching all the way to the high and spacious ceiling. Dark curtains draped the walls to absorb sound, and below the curtains Christine saw beautiful paintings and statues. Firmin pulled her again.

Looking in confused shock at her captor, her wonder was evident in her eyes. Monsieur Firmin straightened his tie, and looked to the young man and Monsieur Andre. "Well, Raoul, Firmin, with our little distraction we have managed to escape the clutches of that crowd." Firmin smirked, and grabbed Christine once again and dragged her to a door across the floor. "My dear, I'm afraid we won't need to discuss your 'career' right now. Or ever, for that matter." Christine's eyes widened as she realized that she would be granted not even a chance for a future in the opera house.

Christine ripped her arm from his grasp. With defiance prominent in her eyes, she straightened her soldiers and stared directly into his eyes. "As a matter of fact Monsieur, I have come here seeking my career. You have, unbeknownst to yourself, declared the very matter that I have come here for. I wish to audition for your choir."

Monsieur Andre gave a little snort, before facing Christine with a nasty grin on his face. "Oh… is it the Prima Donna position you are auditioning for?" His smile widened. "I'm afraid, you little street beggar, it is back out to the streets you will go! There is no room in our choir for untalented wretches such as you. Anyways, the choir auditions have already taken place."

Raoul waltzed up behind the two managers, "Perhaps I could find some place she could stay in the Opera house… she seems like she could have some use a few years in the future." His eyes flashed dangerously as he watched Christine.

Christine couldn't believe it. So far she had come, only to be used as some sick joke for the managers. She would show them herself. She sprinted across the room, far from their reaches and began to sing.

"Tsat tun lit and forglit and paratntray…  
quilint and vockor lisit…

….spornot mot, ….reset…sit and milk made sovary  
silk and sank till savory…

daiska lilla …mot  
por into por rese"

Raoul's eyes flickered with recognition at the sound, and his brow creased as he tried to place the sound to some point in his childhood memories. The managers' shock at the purity and clarity of her voice was evident on their faces. However, they soon restored their previous stony looks. They shook their heads, and gestured to the door once again.

Erik paused. He no longer knew why he was within these thin hidden walls, why he was not composing and embracing beautiful music in his home, and the sealed note in his hands addressed to La Carlotta no longer mattered. Everything had fled his mind except for a single sound. He had heard the sweetest voice, and glancing through one of his many peep holes, saw a young girl standing by the patron's chairs, singing a Swedish lullaby. Breaking his gaze from the young vagrant, he saw those abominable managers shake their heads, and point to the door. Dejected, the girl's shoulders slumped, and she began a shuffling walk to the door.

"NO!"

The noise escaped his mouth before he could control himself. He did not know why he had been so unrestrained. He just could not bear for the girl to leave; with such a heavenly voice even those bumbling oafs should have recognized her potential. He must never lose that voice.

He saw the two managers recover their senses after his outburst from the walls that had echoed all around the walls of the opera house. They sprinted towards the young girl, and she nimbly jumped out of their way, landing poised on her toes, to jump and twist again to avoid them. He saw a familiar black clothed figure emerge from the shadows across the other side of the floor.

"Enough!" declared the voice of Madame Giry. "I will take her. Your choir may be full, but yet another of my dancers has been revealed to be pregnant." It almost appeared that she threw an angry glare at Raoul. "I am in need of a new dancer, and her natural elegance, which was quite visible in her nimble escape of your pathetic attempts to escort her out, is precisely what I need." She grabbed Christine by the sleeve of her dress and dragged her off to the back of the stage.

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The voice was still here.

Christine followed blindly the woman who pulled her every which way, underneath falling scenery, through crowded corridors of singers, and through racks of ostentatiously beaded and brightly colored dresses, finally reaching a door that was abruptly opened as they approached. A young girl who looked about the same age as her with blond curly hair and porcelain perfect features looked in surprise at Christine as she was dragged through the door into a room furnished with mahogany furniture and a plush blue bed.

"Who…?" questioned the petite girl. "She is our new roommate… temporarily. She will join the dancers with you starting tomorrow. Her name is…." Madame Giry looked at Christine with an expectant pause. Christine stuttered and found her voice "Oh… Christine. Christine Daae". Madame Giry shook her head in approval and declared "I am Madame Giry, head of the ballet here at the Paris Opera house. And this is my ten year old daughter, Meg. I'm sure you two will become best of friends."

She moved away with a sweep of her cloak and set about preparing a space for Christine. Christine glanced at Meg, and they both giggled together. Meg took Christine's hand and pulled her out the door again.

Christine sighed in relief. She was in the opera house at last, and dancer was a good enough position for her.

**A/N **Obviously I don't own any POTO characters; those are all property of ALW, Kay, and Leroux.

This is only my first fanfiction story, and I'm not entirely sure what I should change.

Please review! I would really appreciate any help for errors, what the story should focus on, or anything else.

I have no idea what those lyrics mean. I googled Swedish lullabies and that's the first thing that came up.

Also, thank you to PhantomFan01 for reviewing! :)


	3. Apparitions

Chapter 2

_Apparitions_

A young and slight figure stirred from under the thick comforter that covered her and Meg Giry. Her head rose in a still-half asleep and groggy manner. With a tangle of chestnut curls covering her face, she could barely see anything. When she touched the sleeping form next to her, a mumbled word left her mouth. "Dad..."

Christine had not touched the rough and calloused hand of her father, but a soft and small one. She went rigid and sat up quickly, brushing the hair from her face to see an unfamiliar room filled with ballet slippers and bandages, and Christine gazed down at the soft blue blanket that encased her legs.

No, she wasn't home.

Everything hit her like a wrecking ball. Her father was gone, for about two weeks now. She made a startled gasp. No, he was gone. Forever. Christine slipped her legs out from beneath the mattress and tried to remember where she was. When she turned to look at the little hand that she had touched, she saw a mass of yellow curls on top of a small, sleeping frame.

Meg…

So it wasn't a dream. She hadn't just imagined that she was running through the Paris opera house, seeing the sets, the stagehands, the dancers twirling and leaping, the singers performing their scales and practicing for their solos or duets or choir roles. She remembered the vivid green of the painted sets of the woods, the golden statues being moved about the stage as if they weighed less than the air itself, the beautiful and slender costumes that were rolled past her, and the rather large and gaudy ones that also rolled past. Meg had muttered something as those extravagant party costumes had passed… La Carlotta? Perhaps that was the name of the opera.

Oh yes, the opera. It was set to be preformed in a month according to Meg, that was scarcely enough time to perfect any dances they might need for the opera! With fear in her heart at public failure and the potential of being thrown out again, Christine hurried back to the bed, tripping over a soft furry bundle.

Said bundle yowled in protest at having its delicate sleep interrupted because a human had to get somewhere.

"Oh!" gasped Christine, "I'm so sorry Sir Marque! I didn't even notice you were there." On that note, she picked up her little cat and looked for the rest of her possessions so she could fix him something to eat.

Meg stirred from the bed, and sleepily took in Christine's form as she moved across the room to her bag. Meg swung her legs out from under the covers, and with a massive yawn padded over to where Christine sat, strolling past the ballet slipper covered dresser. At that moment, a small mouse poked its head around the corner of the dresser.

Seeing the mouse caused the little dancer to shriek in fear. "Oh, Christine! Kill it! Kill it! Oh it's a ferocious rat and it's going to eat my toes and then I won't be able to dance and then I won't be able to make a living and then I won't be able to care for Mama in her old age and oh, kill it kill it kill it!" As it would happen, Christine did not have to move a muscle. The ferocious lion in her arms sprang towards its unfortunate prey, and it one movement held the entire mouse in his mouth, leaving only the quivering tail trailing his whiskers. In a powerful gulp, the dangerous mouse disappeared forever into Sir Marque's stomach. He padded back over to Christine and Meg, his tail waving in the air in pride at his most recent breakfast acquisition.

Christine and Meg could not help themselves. Seeing the little cat strut about the room with his tail held high in importance brought about laughing spasms that lasted for several minutes, at the end of which the two girls were collapsed on the floor in shaking heaps. When they finally recovered enough to wipe away the tears that had formed at the corners of their eyes, they set about straightening the room. With all of Christine's meager possessions tucked away behind the dresser, the bed neatly made, and each of them wearing a clean dress from Meg's closet, they nodded their approval and proceeded to exit the simple room to find breakfast, which does not come quite as readily as mice behind dressers.

They padded down the hallway, to the mess hall where the rest of the opera house was already eating breakfast preparing for the start of a new day of hard work before the opera began. Madame Giry strode out of the adjoining kitchen, balancing three plates with helpings of eggs, bread, and jam on them. She set a plate down before each of the girls.

Meg dove right into her feast, shoving every morsel of food that her growing stomach could hold into her mouth, but Christine held off. "Thank you so much Madame Giry… this means so much to me." Christine's thankfulness was palpable in the air, and in the glowing smile she gave Madame Giry. It was evident she hadn't eaten this well in quite some time.

Christine ate hungrily while Madame Giry thought and chewed her food carefully. _What can I do with this girl? Why did Erik react in such a manner when the managers tried to throw her out?_ Madame Giry contemplated these questions, even though both were already answered in her head. What did she have to do with Christine? Nothing. After such an outburst yesterday, she was sure that Erik would provide for all of the girl's needs. All that was left was a question of when he would dictate precisely what he wanted. As for the second… Madame Giry was well aware that the only thing that kept Erik from going insane was his music. _Not that he hasn't gone insane before…._

However, insanity was not always the same with every person. Erik's insanity frequently involved smashing things and terrorizing managers for days on end until they got every one of his demands correct, or until he got bored of their bumbling about and decided to leave them little "presents" to express his feelings towards them.

Oh yes, Erik was a sly one. The very picture of a gentleman on one half, and on the other… Madame Giry shuddered. The other was the picture of a trickster demon with a vengeance to extract.

Most recently, his campaign against the managers had focused on La Carlotta i.e. the current Prima Donna of the Paris Opera House. He had painted many anti-Carlotta slogans across the opera house and the stage. To date, his personal favorite, which he continued to paint over the stage was "Carlotta- _Prima_ Donna indeed. First in many things: weight, awful singing, and toad-like appearance."

To La Carlotta and the managers' disgust, many of the opera workers agreed with the rude things he said. At this rate, he very well may have Carlotta ousted. It was only his fear that there could be another, worse diva brought into Carlotta's place that kept her in the opera house. Given the management of affairs currently, the fear was not far fetched.

"Mama?" The questioning voice of Meg Giry brought Madame Giry back to her senses. "Have you been listening to anything that I have been saying?" Meg had a confused look on her face. "Your eyes were so far away…." Madame Giry quickly stuffed the rest of her food in her mouth, and piled the each of the girls' plates on her arms and zoomed back to the kitchen.

She needed the peace and quiet of her own room, where she could think freely. With the pressures of a new dancer to look after, the loss of her lead dancer, an upcoming opera, and the eminent fight between La Carlotta, the managers, and Erik, she was worn out. After depositing her dirty dishes on the kitchen shelf, she turned and ordered all dancers to suit up and go to the stage for rehearsal in half an hour.

Making her way back to the room she shared with Meg, and now Christine, she collapsed on the bed, holding her face in her hands. So many things had spiraled out of her control… La Sorelli pregnant… Raoul de Chagny continued acting as though he owned the opera house… and now Erik's strange actions towards this young singer and dancer.

She heard a plop, and gazed up to see on top of the dresser, amongst the clutter of ballet slippers and chalk, a note with a single rose, and twenty francs attached to it.

Scrambling to her feet, Madame Giry grabbed the note, and arched her neck in an effort to see the mysterious location it had come from. Seeing no possible way the note could have come into the room, she sighed in exasperation, never knowing how Erik pulled off all these little tricks.

Sitting down in the closest chair, she saw strict instructions in a note whose seal she had broken.

_Dear Madame Giry,_

_It has come to my attention that Christine Daae is residing with you. Having three people is not appropriate for a room such as yours. Please move Christine Daae to room 5. You will see that I have already negotiated with the managers that the room be emptied. It should be empty by this evening_

_Your humble servant, _

_O. G._

Madame Giry's lips pulled into a smile. Of course Erik had "already negotiated" with the managers for Christine Daae's benefit.

Glancing at the clock she kept in her pocket, she realized it was time for her to exit this room and return to her ballet students. After all, she had two new dancers and an open lead… There was much work to be done.

Stamping her cane on the ground, Madame Giry demanded perfection. The dancers had been practicing this routine for the past two hours, and the only ones who had completely mastered it, were ironically enough, Meg and Christine. The other dancers had already had several days to practice it, and they were being beaten mercilessly by two ten year olds.

It was days like these that made Madame Giry sigh in aggravation. No, there was nothing she could do except increase the amount of dancing and work each girl should receive for their sub par performance tomorrow.

She signaled for the ballet corps to stop. They had been practicing for the past six hours, they were tired and hungry. Their long sinewy limbs had begun to show the strain and much less precision and grace than they had at the beginning.

Leaving the chalk covered stage behind Madame Giry brought Christine and Meg back to their room. She gestured to the girls to grab Christine's possessions, and picked up the kitten and holding him walked out the door with a purpose visible in her very step.

"We have found a place for Christine to stay… or rather it has been arranged for her. We are going to room five." She glanced back at the two girls; their surprise that someone had "arranged" a room for Christine was obvious. How had someone gone to such lengths to prepare for her when only yesterday she was about to be thrown out? The only one that had spoken out for her was Madame Giry, and even she had not made an appearance until the mysterious voice had declared its anger.

Christine's mind was in turmoil. Finally reaching their destination, Christine saw a room that was beautiful and elegant. It was the same size as Madame Giry's, comfortable for two but large and spacious for one. There was a gleaming full length mirror resting on the wall, and a gorgeous and overstuffed bed, complete with chair and dresser to match in the room. It was obvious this room had been put together with great care, too much for a simple dancer girl.

On the other hand… it looked as though no one had lived in there for a long time. There were small areas where dust had collected, and everything seemed too perfect to have been used frequently, though there were still obvious signs of slight use.

Setting her bags on the floor, Meg and Madame Giry left Christine to her thoughts. Sir Marque paraded about the room, examining every inch of it. Finding it satisfying enough, he leaped atop the bed and settled down for a mid-afternoon nap. Christine chortled at the cat's antics. Such a silly cat he was! And then something on the dresser caught her eye.

A single rose, with a black ribbon tied about it.

Plucking the rose up, Christine examined it. The smell permeated the room, and the petals were fresh and beautiful. There was no way the rose could have been in this room since its last owner had left. It was too beautiful, it could only have been put there an hour or so before she had entered. Who was so kind to her? The person who placed it there must obviously have known who would be occupying the room shortly….

Christine's mind danced back to the voice she had heard through the wall. Or walls, for that matter. The voice had seemed to come from all directions. It was angelic, sweetly caressing her even in anger. When the voice had yelled… there was almost a hint of pain, as if it could not stand to see her go. A hint of sadness. Someone… moved by her music? But this was an opera house! Surely they heard music all the time. Why would she be the one to move him?

Mulling the issue over in her head, she headed to the mirror. It appeared so fragile… as if a single touch would break it. It was almost crystalline in nature. Placing her hand on the mirror, she heard a huff of breath. Turning to see where the noise had come from, she saw no one standing in her room. _A ghost…_

And so it very well could be. Hadn't she heard Raoul speak of a phantom that lived in the opera? Could this voice, the one she heard from the walls? A phantom would live within the walls, yes? Or behind a mirror?

Yawning in frustration and sleepiness, Christine began once more her nightly ritual of attempting to play the violin. Pulling the sleek, polished wooden instrument from its case, she prepared herself and began to play, the notes to a simple lullaby coming easily enough, with mistakes abound, but not enough to the point of cringing as she had in the past weeks.

Christine hit a long run of awful notes, and in anger placed the violin back in its case and locked it. She heard a snort from behind the mirror. In confusion and anger, she collapsed on the bed. "Oh… how will I ever keep my father with me if I can't even keep his music with me?" Christine moaned. Christine began to tear up.

There was only one way she knew to comfort herself; she slowly began to sing herself to sleep. Clear and melodic, even with the strain from tears, her own voice lulled her to the verge of unconsciousness. She stayed there for quite some time, in the purgatory of sleep.

Sensing something was off, even though she could hear nothing, she was brought back to a state of semi-consciousness. A violin played in the background. The song she had attempted to play, preformed much better than any other time it had been played, by the sound of it the only instrument that could have made it was her father's violin. Smiling at her memory of him, Christine rolled over and fell into a deep sleep in the comfort of the familiar sound.

After she had been soundly asleep for the past half hour, the violin ceased its music and was replaced in the case, before the mirror door swung shut behind the Angel of Music.


	4. Lessons

**A/N: Sorry for not updating before, my homework has been really hectic… I guess that's what I get for opting out of gym to take some more AP classes… yay. **

Chapter Three

_Lessons_

Christine's routine continued for several days.

Almost every day was identical to the former. She woke up, went to get breakfast with Madame Giry and Meg, slipped off to the ballet studio to finish learning the other dances in the opera, have lunch, log some more time dancing, explore with Meg, go back to her room, and go to sleep.

All except one part.

The music she listened to every night changed tempos and composers and genre and theme and sound and key and language. She recognized many of the songs… they had been ones she had attempted to play on the violin, songs she heard coming from the practicing choir that she longed to join, classic folk songs, and many more.

But there were still many that she did not recognize. There were so many songs, with a darker tone that seemed to spew pain and questioning, as if the composer himself did not know how to control their own emotions, or that the song and their emotions could possibly be separate entities. These songs were her favorites, and they were always the last ones she listened to at night. They had such a distinct category all to themselves, and they were played with such passion and precision, even more so than the other songs, that she could feel the composer's very spirit as it put the finishing touches on his masterpieces.

Slowly, her musical serenades began to move away from the merely instrumental songs, to the ones with vocal lyrics. When she would return from her adventures with Meg, she would sometimes find the sheet music for the songs that she would be played that night peeking out of the corner of a drawer, as if it had been placed there naturally a long time ago and the angel simply played and sang along with what she thought of.

But Christine knew better. She had heard the sounds from behind the mirror, the gasp when she had placed her hand on its smooth and shiny surface, and without a doubt, that was where the music came from. No, this person might be able to cause their voice to ricochet from place to place, but the violin could not be controlled in such a manner, with only the bow could manipulate it.

As the music filled her room once again, she sighed in relief. Everyday, she thought this strange passing phantom or angel that had been put down on the earth, would leave her and never return. Then the music of the night would end, and she would be left on her own, as she had been too many times now.

However, this strange and mysterious guest had remained. And even though she was a mere girl of just under eleven years, she still had the courage to face and demand an explanation.

"Monsieur… Why do you come here?" Christine asked warily one night, knowing full well that the answer to her question could mean the absence of the violin in her room forever. She would drive herself mad attempting to coax the violin to its greatness again, when she could have in the past so easily laid back and let the song take flight and the music envelop her.

There was a sudden intake of breath behind the mirror. As almost an afterthought, another gasp preceded which bounced all over the room, disguising the hiding spot. A stuttering voice answered her question.

"I…I… I come to play the music. I heard the violin one night and it called to me… so I stayed and listened to your attempts at playing. And then… I heard you sing again. Christine, your voice has a beauty that no other voice can claim. You should be the Prima Donna at this opera house with talent like that, when such a position has been so callously awarded to a talent-less oaf… Rest assured, you will become Prima Donna in time. IF… you let me train you voice."

Erik slumped against the wall. _What had he done? Would she request a room change? He didn't have mirrors in every room… She would surely never let him train her voice… Oh, he had lost the beautiful voice all on his own! She would never become Prima Donna; he would endure Carlotta for the rest of his life… And the girl that truly deserves the position had been wronged, all on account of his selfishness. Stupid, stupid, STUPID Erik…_

Christine was shocked_. SHE had the voice of an angel? This coming from the man who sang to her while playing the violin every night… that sang with a voice so beautiful that she fell asleep in minutes, when usually it took hours. His was the voice of an angel, and it was beautiful beyond compare. He had said he heard my voice again… he was certainly the voice that had yelled out the first day that she came to the Opera House. _She struggled to find her voice.

"Yes… Yes of course I would love for you to train my voice." Christine said. _Was this all some big joke? Was this some crazy idea from the managers telling her to get out?_

Erik's head snapped up. _She really would let me train her voice? Oh, I have not failed!_ "Well then…" he mumbled, "Let's get started right away. You have the sheet music I left for you, yes? Let's start from the tenth measure"

Christine found her spot on the paper and began to hum the melody idly, picking up the notes that her father had taught her when he had taught her a little violin. After a brief introduction from the violin, she began to sing.

She sang for less than five seconds before she was stopped.

"No… Shoulders back! You need to make sure the air can flow, to get the best sound. And make sure to use your diaphragm more. Okay, same spot, once more." Erik's commands peaked Christine's interest as she narrowed her eyes. How could he see her? Wasn't he somewhere behind the mirror? Wouldn't that block his view?

She corrected her form and they carried on. Her voice grew more and more powerful and beautiful with each passing measure and correction. They stopped many more times, and each time that Erik corrected something in her form that could only be visible, Christine's eyes narrowed again.

Erik suspiciously eyed Christine as she narrowed her eyes again. Did she really think that SHE knew better than he about what would improve her music? Oh yes, a little girl of about eight years his junior would know more than HE. Did she not even realize the musical genius that was clearly audible in every stroke of the violin? Many violinists twice his age could not hope for his ability! And it wasn't even his best instrument!

The music began to grow louder and added an air of irritation and anger. Christine looked surprised. What had she done to merit this anger?

"Angel… What's wrong? What did I do to offend you?" Christine asked, ashamed.

"Angel? Why would you call me that?" Erik's irritation began to cool a little bit. She thought him to be an angel? Oh the fantasies young children will entertain…

"Oh! Surely you are the Angel of Music! My father promised me he'd send me the Angel of Music when he died… He promise the Angel would help me realize my potential as a singer and instill in me a love for music as profound as his, which he had gotten when the Angel of Music visited him as a child. Surely such an angel knows everything about music." Christine's revelation embarrassed her. Did she really want the angel to know how reliant she was upon him? How much he filled the gap of her father…

Erik paused. She thought he was an all knowing musical angel? Well then surely she thought everything that he said about music and form was true… Why did she narrow her eyes as if he was wrong? "Angel… of Music? Yes, yes that is what I am. And yes… my emotions did take control of my music… I had been wondering you see, why do you narrow your eyes half the time that I make corrections to your singing?"

Christine's eyes narrowed again before she caught herself and forced them back open. So, he was close enough that he could see her eyes narrowing… that must mean that he had a clear view of her face… Probably directly in front of her, behind the mirror.

She took a breath and spoke "Oh, that was just a question I had for you. There were many mistakes that I made that you _saw_ and corrected, and you saw me narrow my eyes. How do you see me so clearly? I know you are behind the mirror or that wall in general. The sound of the violin quite clearly comes from there. Wouldn't the mirror and wall block your vision?"

His heart froze. She knew his location _already?_ Not only was this girl's voice that of a prodigy, but she was incredibly intelligent as well. She was well on her way to discovering his secret! No… she couldn't find out that there was anything behind this mirror. She would find him… He touched his mask with a trembling hand. She would see the horrors that my face holds… and she would lead a mob to come kill him. He knew he should stay away, but he also knew that he couldn't. He would play along with her angel game, and then she would lose her suspicion. But first things first, he needed to throw her off track.

The booming voice came from three different sides of the room at once and yet all at different times. "You said it yourself, _ange, _I am an angel. The Angel of Music indeed, here to teach you… And as an angel, I can be wherever I want, in the walls, under the floorboards, above the ceiling…" Erik's voice bounced from the walls to the floor to the ceiling, emphasizing his point.

Christine stifled a snort. Oh yes, she was going to believe that trick. She had heard him throw his voice before… and though she still did believe he was the Angel of Music, there had been a pause before he had accepted his title and he had said it almost in a questioning tone. Yes, the voice throwing had definitely been a trick, and maybe he had been a little questionable… but she still thought he could be that angel.

"Oh yes… I had been meaning to ask you. How do you throw your voice like that? It's incredible." Christine began to feel her courage soar. Why shouldn't she ask this angel, even if it wasn't her place?

Erik hesitated. Well. How was he supposed to fix this? "Angels have their ways… perhaps you'll learn in time. I think that's enough singing for tonight.

Christine sighed, and got into bed. She snuggled under the covers as a quiet and mournful tune filled her ears. The voice to accompany was just as sad and quiet, and she was asleep in under a minute.

Erik sighed. He slipped inside and placed the violin in the case, glancing at Christine's sleeping and peaceful face. This might become more of a problem that he anticipated. He slipped back behind the mirror, swinging it shut, and walked down the halls to his lair.

When passing an empty hallway, he heard sobs on the other side. Pausing to peep through one of the peepholes, he saw that fop sobbing on the other side. He snickered, and continued on his way.

Raoul couldn't believe what he had done. The guilt would hit him over and over again. How could he have killed a man…?

On top of it all, he had blamed the "phantom". He had blamed someone that didn't even exist for the crimes that he had committed. It was necessary though, he told himself, necessary for the opera house, his money, and his family. His family would not be harmed by this.

Joseph Buquet shouldn't have died; he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now the second man that Raoul had to kill to protect himself, and it would have to stop. He was going to have to confront Philippe about this…

He started stumbling on his way home. He had wiped the tears off his face and pulled himself together by the time that he had reached the front steps of the De Chagny mansion. He walked around the door and went through the servant entrance to avoid announcing his presence. After sneaking past the cook and several maids, he made his way to Philippe's room.

He had to knock on the door for several minutes before Philippe came and answered the door. The redness of his eyes, tiredness that he exhibited, and sudden jump when Raoul slammed the door shut made it evident that he had spent the last night and the morning drinking and gambling, then coming home to sleep during the day. Now about seven o'clock at night, he was just waking up.

"Philippe… you were gambling again weren't you?" Raoul's face was beginning to flush, and he could feel his temper beginning to rise. "WEREN'T YOU?"

Philippe waved his hand, trying to dismiss his earlier actions. "I was only out for a little… I swear it was only a little Raoul…"

Raoul's ears began to pound. "Only a little. Only a little. Are you kidding me right now? You have an awful hangover. You were obviously out more than a little, and even if it was only a little, how could you do this to me, to our family, with all of the debt that you've already put us in… We owe so much to so many people. I've been covering for you for too long. You need to put me in control of our money situation, and you need to be escorted everywhere by someone so that you can't go gambling anymore. We're closer to bankrupt than we've ever been, and you're only making it worse. Stop. Now."

Philippe sighed. "You think it's that easy? You know quite well you're not so innocent anymore…" He glared at Raoul, "Get off your high pedestal. I know you did what you had to in order to protect me, but you still did it."

Shock was the first emotion to cross Raoul's face. He felt his frozen stiff body being pushed out the door by his older brother, who had been so much of a father to him for so long. When he was out the door, his body finally released him and he turned to stare at Philippe's face just as he was closing the door.

"I can't believe you would go there." Raoul's voice was empty and hollow. He turned and slowly walked away towards his own room.

**A/N Thanks for reading, please review!**


	5. Keys

Chapter Four

_Keys_

_Six years later…_

"Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade  
They have their seasons, so do we  
But please promise me that sometimes  
You will think of me…"

Christine took a deep breath as she finished her song; this was at least the hundredth time her angel had made her practice it over the past two months, the fourth time that night alone and she was beginning to grow weary.

Christine placed her hand on her head as her blood began pounding in her veins from the effort the extended length of time that the last word had taken, she felt faint and collapsed onto her bed.

The music stopped immediately.

It took several seconds for anything to happen. As Christine's world began to swim before her eyes she felt her eyelids start to droop, and she began to feel woozier and woozier, signaling the beginning of yet another fainting spell. They had progressed in amount over the past years, and each time it became more and more difficult for her to resist the failings of her body; however, this was the first time it had occurred during one of her lessons.

When those precious seconds had finally passed and she was beginning to succumb to the overpowering sleep that accompanied these attacks, her ears picked up her name, a whisper which then turned to a scream. She saw her mirror fly across the room and a stumbling figure step out of the shadows and grab her body, shaking her vigorously.

"Christine! Christine! CHRISTINE!"

The voice was panicked, but beautiful all the same. Its sound almost lulled her to sleep, the voice acting as the sweet lullabies her father had used to sing her had, but it also pulled her back: she could not let it remain in this pain, all because of her weakness.

Her eyelids began to flutter, clearing her vision and stopping the sleep from invading her mind and taking her to its deep lair of unconsciousness. She saw nothing, but felt her body roughly turned over onto her stomach, nimble fingers pulling away at the ties of her gown, pulling the strings of her corset loose.

Christine's lungs expanded fully again. The oxygen began to flow throughout her body, making its way to her brain and beating the drowsiness back completely. With her chest heaving and her small body shaking, she felt the hands touching the garment stop moving. Before she could even turn to see what had happened, she heard a soft tap and knew he was gone. She rolled over and saw that the mirror was closed, and her room was exactly how it had been before she had come in for her lesson. It was almost as if a ghost or some other specter had left the room, saving her from her fainting spell and then vanishing just as quickly.

A ghost… or a phantom for that matter.

Even though she had seen no one, she knew exactly who it was. Who else could it be, besides her angel? The name fit him more and more everyday… the voice of one, and a personality to match. The concern her angel had emanated still tinged the air, making Christine tremble with fear and astonishment as she still regained her senses. Yes, she was sure it had been him.

The first moments of her spell flooded back into her mind.

The mirror had….moved? Christine gasped. So that was how he had returned her violin all those years ago! Now she knew he was bringing his own, as her father's lay in its case hidden in all of her things… She had always known there was a space behind the mirror, but she had never known there was a way to access it from her very room. This new passage made much more sense than having to wander in the front door to return it. Oh, how had she missed this secret?

Did that mean… that she could get through the door too? It surely had to work both ways… Her heart fluttered at the though. Oh, the chance to finally meet her teacher! She had grown to care so much over the years; he meant the world to her. What about when she met him? How would she thank him for all these years of kindness, gifts, and time?

And this most recent gift of all… It had not yet been given, but Christine's suspicion grew and grew every time they practiced another song from Hannibal during these nightly sessions. What would be the point of practicing the songs of the Prima Donna if she was just a dancer? She was well aware of his perspective on the singing of La Carlotta… His most recent definition had been a rather large pig wearing a rather large wig, with a voice to match. Was she to take the Prima Donna role from La Carlotta? She had no idea why La Carlotta would relinquish her beloved role, but she was sure it would be happening sometime in the future.

Christine's thoughts were interrupted by the yowl of Sir Marque. No longer a kitten, but a rather fat and lazy cat, he stalked to Christine and pawed at her feet for the only thing that motivated him anymore: food.

Sighing, she picked Sir Marque's struggling body up, and spent the next minute panting at the effort it took to hoist the weight into her arms. Plopping him on her dresser, she pulled out some of the cat food she had bought from the new store around the corner specifically for pets. It seemed like a waste to have a store specifically for pets… but they were beginning to crop up many places now, and she was relieved to have a place to buy food for Sir Marque, rather than feeding him human scraps and setting him hunting for rats and mice in the Opera House. The latter was becoming much more difficult, as the population of rats and mice had significantly declined since Sir Marque had arrived here.

While Sir Marque munched happily on his dinner of "Yummy Cat Diet" Christine's attention once again focused on the mirror. If there was any chance she was going to meet her teacher, she must first make a plan. She pulled on the mirror, shocked that it didn't budge an inch.

"Well… I didn't expect Monsieur le Phantom to make this easy…"

Sir Marque lifted his head at her words and taking one final munch of his dinner, strolled over to Christine while still mid-munch. He brushed appreciatively against her legs and sniffed the mirror, shoving his nose behind the left side and subsequently let out a tentative yowl, along with the bat of his paw at his new found secret.

Christine lowered her head to Sir Marque, and saw a small hinge, so artfully designed that if he had not pawed at it, she would not have noticed it even if she had searched the whole day.

The hinge was designed right into the ornate trim surrounding the mirror. It was carved to look just like a vine, with only a slight break to show where the hinge swung. Looking up higher, she saw its counterpart at just about eye level. Moving over to the other side, she saw the same vine pattern in the same spot, minus the hidden hinge.

The amazing job done hiding this simple mirror amazed her. The pattern had even been replicated on the other side, to avoid suspicion. Christine's forehead wrinkled as she remembered the investigators that had searched the Opera House about a week after the death of Joseph Buquet, the man she had never met personally, but had heard all about the legend surrounding him….

_A week after she arrived, the investigators traipsed through the Paris Opera House, stopping any and every person that they met to demand information of them. As the days went on, the irritation in their faces and eyes visibly grew as they learned nothing. _

_It was well known that the opera patrons were scared for their safety, and if they did not capture this mysterious killer, they could very well be fired by the chief of police, who had of late been getting quite a bit of pressure from the frail but fierce old women of the Parisian aristocracy: threatening his job, and whacking him repeatedly with their little canes. _

_The investigators had mercilessly harassed Madame Giry, who had been ratted out for taking care of Opera Box 5, where the crew repeatedly had told the investigators was the location where the Phantom sat when he watched the operas preformed. _

_When Madame Giry came returned to her room one day, Meg and Christine had been there, playing make believe and vanquishing fiery dragons in every corner. The investigators had attempted to throw her in jail for being in cahoots with the elusive Opera Ghost, and they had only stopped when they were fiercely beaten with Madame Giry's cane. _

_She slumped onto the bed. "Christine… you have to go back to your room. Meg and I have to stay here, they've declared everyone must be in their proper dwelling. They're going to conduct a search of every single room. They're determined to find him you see; if they don't they might lose their jobs. Haven't even paused to consider any other suspects, the oafs… However, they have given me the most excitement I've had in years. I've never seen shock that amusing on anyone else's face when I whacked them with my cane." Madame Giry's face lit up and a smile spread from ear to ear. _

_Christine walked back to her room, not knowing what to do when the investigators finally got there. After about half an hour, the investigators knocked on her door, and she let them in. While she sat in a chair, they circled her like vultures preparing for the kill. _

"_So… you've never heard of this Opera Ghost? Ever"_

_Christine rolled her eyes as she answered the inspector's question once more "Of course I've heard that name, but I've only been here about a week, so the first time I heard of him was the day I was brought in, Raoul made some speech declaring him to be the killer… and"  
_

_Her words were cut off by a slap to the side of her head. "You do NOT refer to the Viscomte de Chagny by his first name you insolent little peasant! Why I should…" His face broke into a smile. "Yes… I think I'll return for your punishment at a later date…"_

_Christine stared defiantly into his eyes, even in her confusion she understood that he was threatening her, and refused to show any signs of weakness. _

_The other investigator, who had broken off the circle from the questioning leader stood up from where he had been examining the mirror. "Boss, there's nothing here. I checked everywhere, the mirror, the dresser, the bed, the floorboards… What else do you want me to do?"_

At that moment, a crash caused the floor of the Opera House to shudder. The investigators whipped around and ran out the door, with Christine following at their heels. The massive chandelier that hung above the opera stage had fallen, and many people coming out of their rooms stood in shock at the sight or screamed at the crystal chandelier scattered all over the stage.

_The investigators glanced at Christine with narrowed eyes and sprinted over to Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, who could only dumbly stare with their jaws hanging open. _

_The investigators grabbed the two managers and pulled them towards their office and locked the door. _

"_Know that Daae girl? Well, that's where we just were when the chandelier fell… I think we'll be keeping an eye on little Miss Daae. It's obvious that if we don't stop our search now, something even worse might happen."_

_Monsieur Firmin paled at the words. "Like… another murder?" _

"_Yes, like another murder. If you learn anything else, call us. Our work here is done. Clean up your Opera House. If we come up with anything, we'll tell you at one."_

_The head investigator held out his hand to Monsieur Firmin. After a nod from Andre, he accepted the hand. "You've got a deal. We'll be watching."_

_As the investigators departed, Erik chuckled from his corner, making the sound bounce right to the head inspector's ear. He saw the man stiffen, and rush more quickly out the door. _

_Erik sighed, another job well done. He had ridden his precious Opera House of those investigators. He would have to thank them for letting him make such a big demonstration of his power, pulling down a whole chandelier! If people had been onstage at the time, he wouldn't have done it, but thanks to those investigators, no one had been in sight! These people, no matter how incompetent, did not deserve to die. Well, maybe Carlotta… What a pity though, he had truly liked that chandelier._

_Erik returned to Christine's room. Looking through his mirror, he saw upended drawers and all of Christine's things spilled on her floor. Oh, his angel! He had seen the start of this, and had heard the investigator's threat… but he did not know the damage half a minute of absence when going to the chandelier could cause!_

_Christine walked into the room then, groaning at the mess when she saw it. Erik rested his head on his arm, seeing her being to pick up all of her things and start rearranging them neatly. Sir Marque popped his head out from the corner of her bed and jump in the nearest drawer that Christine was fixing. _

_Erik tried to suppress a chortle at the little cat's antics, but it escaped anyways. Christine's head snapped up immediately, a smile glowing on her face. "Thank you… Monsieur."_

_Erik realized his mistake and fear took over him, so he slipped away back to his lair._

Christine snapped out of memory-land and chuckled as she realized that her cat was smarter than the best investigators in Paris; his superior intellect was demonstrated quite clearly by the discovery of the secret door.

Sighing in irritation again, she continued on her search for an entrance, but found none, and had to concede to the fact that the Phantom would have to unintentionally help her to get her way…

A plan forming in her head, Christine changed into her nightshift and went to bed, her nightly lesson interrupted by her lack of control over her body.

The next morning, it was business as usual. She followed her daily routine and even found time to chat with Meg, laughing at the stage boys' antics as they tried to capture the attention of the two girls. After dinner, Christine returned to her room to prepare for her next lesson.

Sure enough, her angel was right on time. As the first strains of music filled her ears she began to sing, happily singing along through two songs, with minimal pausing for corrections. Midway through the third song though, her body began to sway.

It was true, she did feel slightly faint, but she was in no way near fainting. However, her breathing began to quicken and she collapsed onto the nearest chair, copying her movements last night with such precision to the extent where she almost believed she was really fainting.

There was a loud smack as something threw itself against her mirror from the other side, accompanied by a scratching sound, almost as if someone was searching for something on the other side. Christine lifted her head, shifting her gaze from one side of the mirror to the other side, using her eyes to look for any change in shape of the mirror, and using her ears for any sound that might come.

Suddenly, the scratching stopped, and with a soft click, the door creaked open less than an inch before it was rapidly pulled shut again.

Immediately after the mirror was swung back to its proper spot, Christine found what she had been looking for.

There had been a small shift in the mirror frame on the top right corner. It had popped slightly in, before moving back out.

Bingo.

Christine turned and feigned extreme tiredness, collapsing on her bed the second she reached it. She curled on her side, her face turned from the mirror, a beaming smile on her face.

Yes, she had found her way in.

**A/N Please review with any criticism/suggestions/opinions on the story!**

**If you have any questions feel free to ask.**

**Also, I was told that at the beginning of the story I said Christine was nine and then later I said she was almost eleven… I meant to say she was ten in the prologue, I just had a little mental mix up. **

**Thanks to all of my reviewers!**


	6. Passages

A/N: Thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers!

PhantomFan01: Oh, I could never kill Sir Marque off if I tried…

13Aphrodite: Thanks for the wonderful review! :)

CaptainHooksGirl: I've always thought Raoul isn't an inherently evil soul. I feel that there have to be trying circumstances to get him to turn into a villain…

MegGiryBff: I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Also, I mistakenly uploaded the wrong chapter about an hour ago… super sorry about that. My chapter numbers are off and I never can figure out what's the right one. So, here's the real deal. Biiggggg thanks to CaptainHooksGirl for noticing that.

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Chapter Five

Passages

Christine's eyes snapped open and she was greeted by the shine of the new electric lights in the hallway seeping around her door she knew she was in trouble.

Madame Giry's dance practices always began at dawn for the older girls… and based on the fact that lights had been turned on, it was well past that.

Christine shot out of her bed faster than a speeding bullet, and began frantically throwing on her dance shoes and her tutu. She fled her bedroom, not bothering to change direction, simply continuing on a straight path towards the ballet studio while people ducked out of her way as if a collision with her would be as powerful as one with a locomotive.

At the last second, Christine saw several stage hands lose control of the golden statue they had been pushing. It rolled full speed towards her, and knowing she wouldn't be able to change paths; she jumped. With her newfound ability to leap over tall statues in a single bound, Christine crashed through the door to the studio.

Christine's head crashed directly into something hard as rock. She bounced back, startled at the impact, and clutching the side of her head her eyes widened as she took in the tall and muscular man she had run into.

His face beamed and his entire body shook with laughter as he saw the petite ballerina squashed in a corner on the floor.

"Hello, I'm George… and you must be…?"

A deep blush reddened Christine's cheeks as she stuttered while trying to frame a semi-coherent response. "My name is Christine… you wouldn't happen to know where the rest of the ballerinas are, would you?"

"Mmm… maybe. Why should I tell you?" Sneaking a glance at Christine, his face turned into an exaggerated expression of shock as he saw that her face had hardened. "Oh come on, I'm only kidding. The ballerinas have a lunch break right now… The male dancers are using the studio while they eat."

All of the color drained from Christine's face. "They're… what… it's noon already? Oh no… I've overslept by several hours!" Her panic began to grow out of control, already imagining all of the awful things that could happen to her for missing a practice. She already wasn't on the best of terms with the managers… they just simply refused to believe that the water Christine spilled when going to mop another section had been an accident. Normally it wouldn't have been a big deal, but Carlotta just happened to be strutting past at that time and had slipped… maybe laughing at the diva during the seconds she rolled around on the ground like a turtle flipped on its back hadn't been the best idea for proving her innocence.

Leaping to her feet, Christine thanked George and the rest of the dancers as she raced out the door to the lunch room.

When she creaked open the door to the kitchens, Christine began to tremble slightly upon seeing Monsieur Andre chatting with Madame Giry. Opening the door only slightly to make as little noise as possible, Christine crept along the side, narrowly avoiding Andre's arms as he stretched in his chair. Sighing in relief, she settled down at one of the long wooden tables with the rest of the dancers, who eyed her with disbelief and admiration that she had missed the whole first half of the day, and had not repercussions.

Meg shot her a very obvious thumbs up and grinned profoundly as Christine blushed at the unwanted attention. Averting her gaze from the quarreling adults, she began to count the wooden planks below her.

Before she had even reached ten, a thundering voice interrupted her.

"Christine Daae! WHERE are those costumes I sent you for?"

Christine looked up in shock at the revelation that she was supposed to have been on a scavenger hunt for some costumes, staring with open eyes into the narrowed pupils of Madame Giry.

"Uhhhh….. Well, um…"

"I sent you looking for the costumes that the 'slave girls' in Hannibal wear in the second act! Where are they?" With a wink from Madame Giry, Christine realized her cue to "return" to her search for the objects.

Thankfully, she had spotted them on her journey to the ballet studio. "Oh! Yes, I saw Carlotta following the rack of dresses, trying to find her own… I didn't want to disturb her. I'll go ask her now though, she must be done."

Monsieur Andre's eyes shot open. "Carlotta… you ask… dresses? I'll come with you!" His fear of another Carlotta tantrum from an attempted murder by water caused his body to tremble.

Without another word, Monsieur Andre looped his arm around Christine's and dragged her out towards the dressing rooms.

Struggling to keep pace with the practically sprinting man, Christine stumbled over any object that came across her path, including several small choir girls, knocking them down as she passed.

When the pair finally reached Carlotta's room, Andre paused for a moment and exhaled deeply before knocking on the Prima Donna's door.

"Who iz it?" Carlotta's screeching voice cut through the door, causing Andre to visibly wince in pain and cover his ears.

"It's just me, Monsieur Andre. Can we come in?"

"Of course! Just wait a second; I must finish powdering my nose."

After a wait of much longer than ten minutes, Carlotta finally opened the door to reveal a large and rather round woman with a layer of makeup so think that it could be carved off her face. Wearing a bright pink and repulsively fluffy dress, she walked out the door and twirled.

"What do you think of my new dress? What… you… YOU!" Carlotta's gaze narrowed on Christine. "Zis is the repulsive little beast that tried to kill me! Get her out of my room! Get her out!"

"But Mademoiselle Guidicelli, we are not even in your room, so we can't possibly get out! She only wants the rack with the dancer's costumes…"

At that moment, the dancer's outfits were sent flying out of Carlotta's dressing room and hit Monsieur Andre, causing him to go flying backwards.

After pushing the dress rack off of himself, Monsieur Andre stood up, dusting himself off and glaring at Christine. With a flick of his wrist he dismissed Christine; he walked off mumbling something about needing some alcohol to nurse his wounds.

Upon deciding this was more than enough excitement for one day, Christine resolved to cross all of her t's and dot all her i's, to avoid any more trouble for or from those who had already gone so far to cover up for her. She pushed the dress rack away from the Prima Donna's dressing room, swerving numerous times to prevent any altercations.

By the time she had reached the studio, all of the other dancers were lazing about and simply stretching. She felt goose bumps appear all over her body as Madame Giry turned to stare at her.

"Christine! Into form two! We will not stop until this dance routine is perfect, and then, you dancers will put on the costumes, and perfect it that way as well!"

The ballerinas all scurried about in a flutter of tutus and slippers, assembling themselves by skill and authority. Naturally, Meg had the very front position for the lead ballerina, as she had taken from a much younger age than any of the other dancers. One might believe there to be a certain amount of jealousy about this early promotion, but there were only two ballerinas that had attempted to deny Meg this position, or accuse her of cheating because her mother was the instructor. All the rest, on the other hand, acknowledged Meg's superior dance moves and settled for their mediocre positions.

Christine took her place on Meg' right flank, and froze in her starting position as Madame Giry began to count out an introduction with her cane.

Feet flying and swirling, the bodies swept across the room in an elegant flutter.

Madame Giry paused to make corrections, and even had to threaten the two jealous girls with being thrown out of the act if they did not learn to properly control their arms to prevent the slapping of others as they spun. After several hours though, the routine had reached as much perfection as a group of teenage girls mostly taken from the street could manage, and then the costumes came, and small alterations were made to perfect those movements as well.

Madame Giry sighed at, what was in her opinion, a poor showing. Would these girls never learn? It had turned out that Meg and Christine's out performance of the older girls was a prediction of the future as well... none of the others could hold a candle to the ability of the two, and their skill made the others' mediocrity much more obvious in comparison.

There was a knock at the door. Signaling to stop, Madame Giry walked to the entrance and flung open the door to reveal the same male dancers Christine had stumbled into before. George winked at Christine, causing her to blush, while all the other girls around her giggled and poked her, making her blush turn her cheeks a deep shade of red.

"Monsieur Firmin says the critics said the latest opera in Venice failed because there wasn't enough romance in it... he wants there to be a lot more boys visible with the girls, so we shall not be dancing on separate parts of the stage, we have to coordinate new dance moves involving both the girls and the boys together" George said grimly.

The dark blue eyes of Madame Giry widened to an incredible size. "You mean... we have TWO days to coordinate a whole dance section and get it practiced to perfection? We'd be better off without any dancing than dancing as atrocious as is going to result from this... this... massive idiocy!"

"I know... but there's nothing I can do about it. Monsieur Firmin's word is law, and I'm not going to be thrown off the cast because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. So we just have to carry on." George did genuinely appear irritated, but there was nothing he could do to rectify the situation.

"We'll think this evening... and then practice every minute of tomorrow. Girls, dismissed!" Within a minute of Madame Giry's command, Christine and Meg were the only two left in the room. They picked up their belongings, and walked out of the room side by side.

"I can't believe they would do this to Maman. She's right about no dancing being better than hideous dancing from only one day to practice. I'm disgusted that people consider this to be good managing. When patrons come to the opera house, they should be thanking Maman and Monsieur Reyer for fixing all of the managers' bumbling with the dancing and the singing." Before she could continue on her rant, Christine stopped her.

Pulling Meg to the side, Christine shushed her and pointed towards her own dressing room. Meg nodded, and the pair slipped off to Christine's room.

Once they had reached their destination, Christine locked the thick wooden door behind her. Turning to face Meg, she was startled to see a petrified Meg standing on a chair and holding a pillow, eyeing the cat that circled her.

"Oh! I forgot to feed Sir Marque this morning... I'm sorry; he must be starving by now. You can come down Meg; he won't hurt you unless you try to take his food."

Meg continued eyeing Sir Marque suspiciously, but crept down from her perch and set the pillow on the bed. After Christine set down a bag of food for Sir Marque he began munching happily, although still aggravated over the time it had taken.

Meg sighed in relief that Sir Marque was no longer trying to eat her ankle for dinner. "I've never seen him act that way before Christine, and you've forgotten to feed him enough times for me to know that's not his normal behavior."

"I know... but maybe he's just more irritable than usual today. Sometimes he gets really territorial, when..." Christine broke off mid phrase, staring at the dresser. Sir Marque was, in fact, rather territorial. And he had been here. The single red rose tied with a black ribbon lying on top of the dresser was proof enough.

"Uhh.. I think there's something in my drawers I wanted to show you." Christine leaped towards her dresser, and tried to snatch at the rose to throw it into a drawer.

Her charade had not fooled Meg though, who had grabbed the rose before Christine had a chance and twirled it between her fingers.

"So, a secret admirer? Is that what's hidden in your drawers? Ohhhhhh, Christine Daae! How could you keep this from me? What color is his hair? How tall is he? Does he work here? Is he a patron? Does he know about your singing? Oh, tell me tell me tell me!"

Christine thought for a moment. "Well, his hair is... blonde? Brown? No, how about blonde... and yes, he's tall. Mmm... oh and he knows how well I can sing. He knows that quite well, as a matter of fact." Christine smirked. Yes, her "lover" knew that better than anyone else.

Turning to face Meg, she was surprised by the angry slap on her shoulder. "Christine! You make this sound like... how long has this been going on and you haven't told me?!"

Christine chuckled. "A while." Only a few years...

Meg's face scrunched up more and more in irritation. "Why, I should... Oh! I know who it is!" She flashed a knowing smile and sauntered towards the door. "So, are we going to go do something interesting, or are we going to stay in here and pretend it's not obvious who he is?"

"No, we're going out. I'll be following right after you."

The door clicked shut as the two girls left and the room was silent for a matter of seconds. Then, several hard punches caused the wall to vibrate, echoing around the room.

"Why did I ever think she would love me? Why? Oh, she wants a pretty handsome boy like that fop... oh, Christine, sweet Christine..." Erik's head was cradled in his hands. How useless his hopes were! A pretty handsome boy... yes, the very opposite of the monster that he was. He looked up through the mirror at her room, when a figure caught his attention.

Christine had returned, in her hands the wrap she had left behind held in her hands, staring at the mirror in deep concentration. Erik gasped, and sped away from his hiding spot, running deep into his labyrinth.

Christine held her wrap with trembling hands. Her angel wanted her to love him? So must he love her? She couldn't have imagined joy such as this before.

She placed her wrap on the dresser and turned to walk a few steps out the door to where Meg was waiting.

"Meg... I don't' feel well. I feel a little sick; I think that's why I overslept this morning. I'm going to go back to my room and sleep for a little bit. Maybe I'll see you after that."

Meg pouted, but allowed Christine to return alone. Christine locked the door behind her, her body shaking in anticipation. She stood in front of the mirror.

"Come to me angel of music... you are my angel of music..."

She waited for a few minutes, but when she got no response built up her courage to finally go through the mirror. Tucking the rose into the side of her hair, and calling Sir Marque to her side, she pressed the small patch of mirror that had moved last night.

There was a small pop, and the mirror swung all the way open.

Determination pulsed adrenaline through her veins, and Christine took a step through the mirror.

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A/N: Please review guys! There's quite a few people reading along, and I would really appreciate your feedback.

On a side note, if there are any small events or details you'd like included simply because… well they're wonderful, feel free to tell me! I'll certainly try to put them in there.

Example:

"Silly Christine forgets to feed Sir Marque again, and he goes on a feral tiger rampage, eating everyone in his sight except for Carlotta, because she would give him indigestion."

Um… no can do. While interesting for the first two seconds…. 'tis a wee bit sillier than possible.

Example:

"La Carlotta falling in some mud would be great!"

YES. A pig in its natural habitat! Perfect!

Thanks again to all of the wonderful reviewers and followers :)


	7. Journey

**A/N **Thank you to my wonderful reviewers!

PhantomFan01: Oh Christine's a very resourceful girl...  
13Aphrodite: Thanks for the review! I love involving Meg in this story; I've always loved her as a supporting character.  
CaptainHooksGirl: Thanks for PMing me that! And Meg's suspicions will all be revealed with time...

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!  
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Chapter Six

_Journey_

The corridor was pitch black.

Christine's mind could not register much else besides the imposing darkness of the room. Her conscious mind had essentially gone to sleep, leaving only her subconscious to guide her every footstep. More than once she had stepped on Sir Marque while he walked loyally next to her, and his enraged screeches were the only thing that pulled her mind back from oblivion.

Christine's hand dragged along the stone wall; its perfectly smooth but rough surface guided her through the passages, weaving her in and out of the twisting pathways with her faithful companion next to her, in search of angel she had scared away.

She walked for what felt like an eternity; the journey took hours upon hours and twisted every which way: always following the right path whenever the path forked; she must have walked several miles underneath the opera house, passing what could only be countless dressing rooms and rehearsal studios whose movements echoed and songs bellowed in the background during her endless journey; she heard the scratching sounds of scurrying rats and untold beasts through the dank and dark labyrinth that was her angel's prison.

Her mind lulled itself back into the semi conscious state of being where she moved without thought that the maze had trapped her in. She had begun to slip past the point of no return.

She was shocked out of her stupor by the sudden appearance of a divot along the wall. The small hole was perfectly circular and shallow, with an even smaller indent within. Even though she could see nothing, she could almost sense a discrepancy farther along the wall. Inserting her smallest finger into the divot, there was a small click before she began falling almost endlessly.

The button she had pressed had triggered the swirling panel that she had been leaning against, and as it spun it cast her out of the labyrinth. She landed with a heavy thud, and groaned as she felt her arms pierced by splinters and small wooden shards.

When she had regained enough motor ability to move all of her limbs, she rolled onto her back and pulled her arms close to her face so she could survey the full extent of the damage. Several wooden pieces had pierced her skin, causing blood to trickle slowly down from the very tops of her arms. Parts of her arms were beginning to swell, a sure sign that she would have some wonderful bruising before the night was through.

Christine groaned in irritation, before finally taking in her surroundings. She was on top of an unfinished wooden structure... and there were many small fractured pieces of wood surrounding her, and farther away from her there were more piles of thin wooden planks... which appeared to be the offending objects that she had smashed. The entire area appeared quite uncomfortable, until she took notice of the plush and elegant seating arrangement that had been set up on the other side.

Two comfortable red velvet chairs were placed against the wall, with a small but ornate Persian rug underneath. A carved mahogany bedside table covered by a crisp white tablecloth rested in between the two chairs, holding nothing more than an empty wine glass and a knotted section of rope. Everything in the arrangement was oriented to face to the right; curiosity took hold of Christine's mind and she scooted over to the edge, gasping at what she saw.

During her whole journey through the labyrinth, she hadn't been going down... she had been going up.

The entire opera house was sprawled beneath her. From this angle, one could see every face and movement that happened during the play, all while being sheltered by the height and a small wall around the perimeter. Sections of the wall were being thickened and heightened... which Christine suspected was the purpose of the wooden boards she had accidentally destroyed. The whole wall almost reached the ceiling, except for the large window which enabled the seated persons to view the opera being performed.

Wondering where this hidden sanctuary could possibly be, Christine pushed her head out the window and looked downward, only to see the shocked faces of Monsieurs Andre and Firmin staring back up at her. With a squeak of fright, Christine pulled her head back in through the window and clutched her hammering chest while she slowly stopped hyperventilating. She was directly above Box 5!

_Oh no... What have I done? _Christine smacked her forehead with her palm, in disbelief at the idiocy her curiosity had gotten her into. Surely this was her angel's room... it was his labyrinth after all that led to it! And she had given it all away in one idiotic swoop... how to remedy the situation...

Pacing around the balcony, Christine heard the two managers call to the mysterious person above them and demanded they reveal their identity. Refusing to bring even more harm to her angel in only one day due to her lack of thought, Christine swept over to the carved table and swept up the tablecloth, leaving the wine glass in the center. After tying the rest of the fabric below the base of the glass, it was sent flying out the wide viewing hole, and flew over the stage of the opera house before coming to a crash into an unidentifiable part of the patron's seats.

Two stunned screams followed the flight of the "ghost", forcing Christine to realize that both Andre and Firmin had the ability to hit higher notes that even she could, and in their panic Andre shoved Firmin over the railing of Box 5, forcing Firmin to grab onto one of the elaborately decorated poles supporting the box and slide his way down. Chortling at her most recent plan, she heard the enraged snarls of an angry cat trapped behind a door and made her way back into the labyrinth.

Swirling with newfound ease through the door, Christine bent down to scoop up her cat while her eyes readjusted to the complete darkness she had once again been plunged into. Struggling to lift the heavy weight, Christine's muscles screamed with effort, and she stumbled a few feet forward before being whacked heavily in the legs.

A single shriek escaped her lips before she fell backwards onto the ground. Startled by the occurrences, Christine laid on the ground for the next several minutes before building the nerve to see what her attacker had been. Patting around the wall, she found a long, wooden pole attached to a spring that had been whipped at her legs. A trap... meant to scare she supposed, as it could not possibly be deadly unless someone decided to crawl along the ground and was hit in the head.

With renowned fear, she rose to her feet and retrieved the cat that was viciously clawing away at the wooden bar that had hurt his beloved mistress. Determined to keep him away from any harm such as this, and from her own carelessness due to the imbalance of weight, she ripped a length of fabric from the bottom of her dress and fashioned a sling across her body, where she placed Sir Marque to keep him off the ground.

Christine turned to leave, before remembering that if there was one trap by a casual hideaway... there were sure to be closer to the true prize, wherever her angel disappeared to after leaving her each night. The wooden bar snapped after several hard tugs, and Christine proceeded to use it as deactivation method for the traps.

Making sure each step counted, and swinging the wooden bar in front of her the entire way, Christine made her way down and down the tunnels, pausing only when she heard the snap of a trap that her bar had activated. She moved down and down, passing the opera house stage on her trip.

"What do you MEAN a ghost flew over your heads?"

Raoul's veins pulsed in his temples, and his cheeks were inflamed with irritation over the imbeciles of managers. They had always managed to call at the worst times...

"Well... we saw a young girl's face above us for a split second, and when we tried to call out to her it flew across the stage... I swear, it floated for a second before spontaneously disappearing!"

The managers' answer was obviously not enough to satiate the rage that flowed through Raoul's blood. He had used the Phantom of the Opera a long time ago as a cover, but he had always thought it was a ridiculous story spread by gullible teenage girls in their desires to frighten one another, especially since it was that ridiculous All Hallow's Eve in England... and the managers fright over what could be any simple white object just intensified this belief.

"Ghosts. Don't. Exist." Raoul hissed between his teeth, "They don't fly in the Paris Opera House either. Find whatever it was, and bring it to me so I can destroy it!" By the time Raoul had finished his little speech, he was seething and almost foaming at the mouth. The managers began to sweat, as if the pure anger he radiated had raised the temperature on the stage.

The pair of bumbling oafs frantically murmured their assent and proceeded to crash into each other before going their separate ways in search of the mysterious flying ghost.

Raoul rolled his eyes before slumping against the nearest wall with his hands holding his head. Of course they had to call now, right in the middle of an operation he had been overseeing to bust one of his men out of jail...

Naturally, he couldn't leave one of his thieves inside the Parisian jails. Who knew what the police would do to him... he might spill everything in exchange for freedom or a lighter sentence or maybe even a reward... Yes, there would probably be a reward for helping to bring down such a powerful ring.

Despite all of his efforts over the years, his family was still in trouble. His sisters callously spent money on jewels and dresses after both of their husbands had strangely taken ill and died. Due to their insane need to keep up appearances, he had needed to steal back the jewelry and dresses after they had been bought and sell them back to save money; they hadn't even noticed that the precious baubles that they could not do without were now missing.

However, as always, there was one lord of all spending. His brother, Philippe.

The gambling had become even more out of control than it had been six years ago. Then, Philippe would only spend several hours maximum gambling away their family fortune, and had at least made attempts at recovery and did not go everyday. Nowadays however... he was away gambling more than he was at home. And when he was at home, it was only because he had made some small amount of money after losing an exorbitant amount.

After he had won it, he had to spend it. What it was spent on didn't matter to Philippe, as long as it was spent. The majority of time that he spent at home, he was either drinking expensive wines by the case, or hiring prostitutes, or buying some new item on the market that he would never touch once it arrived at the de Changy mansion.

And of course, Raoul was the one left holding the bag. He loved his brother... but this, this madness that he had been forced into since he was fifteen... it was beginning to consume him, body and soul. When he looked into his face in the mirror each morning, he saw only the cold and haughty man that Philippe had been before his addictions had started, not the warm and kind boy from his teenage years.

But there was no way out. He was stuck supporting the opera house, because without that support, it would go under and he would lose all of the money that his family had invested in it over the years... but even with his support, the failure of the managers to capitalize on any major scandal for publicity brought down the opera house more and more everyday. They fired the best workers, repeated the same shows over and over again, and hired any vagabond off the streets or any rich daughter that couldn't dance, but wanted to participate in shows without any practice simply because their parents came to the opera. Not to mention that blasted "phantom" the managers had created out of their fear of what lurked under their bed... or in this case, their opera house.

Pft. _Their _opera house. It was his, and always would be. Look at them scramble around doing my bidding... It's _my_ opera house now...

Raoul shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts from his brain. He couldn't turn into Philippe, he wasn't Philippe, he wouldn't be, he couldn't be...

When the man leaning against the wall got up to leave, he was no longer Raoul de Changy, taking care of the needs of his managers, but Philippe de Changy, reveling in the authority that nobility brings.

-

After what felt like even more hours, Christine finally began to make progress. There was no doubt in her mind that she had wandered in endless circles the past few hours, perhaps it was because the pitch black darkness, the rough walls, and the gravel beneath her feet all seemed to be the same... or because she had passed the site she had taken her guiding stick from three times already.

But now, she saw something in the distance. Yes, _saw_. There was some light radiating from the end of the corridor that she was in, and she was anxious to reach it as quickly as possible. She still had to make amends with her angel for what he had misheard... she needed him by her side, behind her mirror tutoring her, supporting her throughout all of her trials since she was ten... There was no being separated from her angel now, she would be lost and would wander endlessly through the rest of her life, searching for the music that had first brought her spirit back.

With a visible goal, perhaps she became careless and walked too fast and without caution. Or perhaps, it was merely a product of coming closer and closer to something important to the Phantom. All Christine knew was that when she could finally begin making out shapes in the light that flooded the end of the corridor, it went out and her world was plunged into darkness again.

Shocked by the sudden change, Christine's stick dropped to the ground. She reached down to pick it up, and with a single snap and a tiny prick in her arm, her world began to go in slow motion. Starting to slip off into a stupor much more dangerous than that which claimed her in fits, she regained enough sense to fight against the imposing oblivion on her mind; she had fought against this feeling before many times, and she would fight against it again; Christine reached down for anything to jog her senses, and her hand stumbled across a smooth metal cylinder. Pulling it close to her body, she felt it and discovered it to be a lantern, and with motions slow and heavy, she found several matches strewn along the ground and proceeded to light the lantern.

The last thing she registered before submitting to the drowsiness was her angel standing above her, eyes open in shock.

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**A/N: **Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers/followers/favoriters!

Please read and review, come on guys, it's my birthday AND Halloween.

Give a girl a review for her birthday?


	8. Business

A/N Thanks again to the reviewers!

PhantomFan01: Come on, who can resist dark and mysterious corridors where they shouldn't be?  
13Aphrodite: Thank you so much! And I am sorry, I'm trying to work on extending the chapters, but I spontaneously decided to write that on Halloween... and when the computer hit low battery I just wrapped it up as fast as I could. I swear this one will be longer though.  
CaptainHooksGirl: I just love idiots. Bumbling fools and ravaging cats always make for the best humor, as they are completely ridiculous and random. Randomness is always key to making any degree of sense... I know this, because the majority of words that exit my mouth are a random combination of strange things.

Officially reached 1,000 views!

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Chapter Seven

_Business_

Erik stared in awe at the angel that lay on the floor.

Her silken brown curls had fanned out on the ground and framed her face perfectly. Her skin almost glowed, as if it was radiating pure goodness and light. Her pale pink lips were slightly parted, her breath coming in and out in small quick breaths. She was slim and graceful; the perfect body type of a ballerina, the perfect body type of any aspiring young artist. Dressed in a simple white gown, she was the very image of purity and innocence.

_And that is exactly why I can't touch her._

_She doesn't deserve to be touched by such evil, her innocence destroyed in a fleeting instant by my lack of thought, and the contact with my devil's hands would surely burn her flesh._ I debated over what to do for quite some time... long enough for her breathing to become quicker and shallower, as the poison worked its way through her body, but I didn't notice. I was too distracted by my own foolish problems to notice her much more severe and life threatening one.

_How to move her? If I couldn't touch her myself, surely if I wrapped her in my cloak and carried her, she might not contact me and remain unspoiled and perfect? No... that was too close. She still might be harmed by the burning fires that consumed my soul. Maybe a stretcher that I could drag her along by? Yes... then I would be as far away as possible, maybe not far enough to retain perfection, I would need a mirror to reflect my evil back upon myself for that... Perfection slipped farther and farther away the longer I waited, my very aura might even be harming her! Oh, why hadn't I thought of this before! I had to leave, to think of a plan before returning; so as to spend as little time as possible with her, but one last glance couldn't hurt..._

The only thing that saved her was ironically the very thing that had put her in this place. The small, single pinprick of blood on her upper arm and the bloodstained tip of the needle drew my attention to the much worse problem at hand.

The toxin was surely working its way almost completely through her system by now; I cursed myself for allowing such misfortune to befall her. Trying to save her from myself... when in reality I was only harming her more by waiting; I was the reason that foul Persian poison was in her bloodstream.

The shock of the situation did not wear off gradually: it fell off all at once in a single sweep of emotion. Poison, Persian poison, one of the strange and terrible concoctions I had made when I had been under the thumb of the shah. Poison that caused the strangest and hardest to identify symptoms, that would take place gradually over time... ensuring the most painful death possible for the victim; the poison would course through their bloodstream and settle in the organs to slowly eat away at all bodily functions and control...

There was still time, there had to be time left.

I fell to the floor, pulling her body close to mine. I put my lips on her arm, right over the puncture mark and sucked as hard as I could, to pull the venom straight out of her bloodstream.

It began to leave her blood almost instantly; it had only been in there less than two minutes. Its foul taste pervaded my mouth, made me cringe at such an awful thing having been in my angel's body. I turned and spit: the poison and blood leaving my mouth before I returned to suck poison again.

Eventually, her blood lost the sickening flavor of the toxin and I leaned back, relieved that the worst of the effects had likely been avoided. The blood from her pinprick had turned into a flowing river; it needed to be stopped. I leaned across her body and collected the sling that rested on her stomach, and wrapped it tightly around her arm to prevent any more of her precious blood to spill.

Leaning back on my haunches, I took a second to breathe before deciding on my next course of action; feeling began to flow back into my body now that the adrenaline driven craze to safe my angel had faded off.

That's when the pain hit: a gnawing sensation right above my ankle. My left hand snapped to my side, straight to the catgut lasso that permanently resided at my side; my right hand flew down to protect my ankle from the object mauling it.

My attack was rewarded with an enraged yowl and I finally realized what my body had been numb to during Christine's plight: her obese furry puffball of a cat had been loyally defending his mistress's body by attacking my leg, and he hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. While my leg was still intact, the bottom my pants leg was not, rather, it had been torn into little strips of confetti and with each movement revealed a series of claw and bite marks covered my already scarred and deformed body.

Sighing in aggravation, I picked the creature up by the scruff of his neck -much to his protest- and placed him gently upon Christine's body, at which time he promptly sat upon her face and began to sniff frantically at her eyes and forehead. Trying to be as careful as possible, I picked up her shivering body and held her close to my chest in an attempt to give her some of the extra heat that my rapidly pounding heart created.

She moaned slightly and leaned closer into my body, causing her creature to slide downwards and scramble back up –using my body as a climbing post. Could it be? Even though she was unconscious… my very presence didn't repel her? Maybe she could at least tolerate me, despite having learned the true monstrosity that the back of the mirror held.

If this was to be my only chance, if there even _was_ a chance, I would take it. I would move mountains for this girl, and even though I would never earn her love, I would become as close to human as anyone had ever allowed me to become. I could change, and the warmth that seared from my heart to all parts of my body –more powerful of a love than music had ever given to me- proved that I could and would become an altogether different person just for a kind word from her.

With a new goal in mind, I righted her body and slipped through the narrow passages, returning to the dungeon of my mind. The darkness no longer had any effect on my eyes, and I walked through the corridors with perfect ease.

As the duo plus cat moved away, the flickering light of the lantern that had been callously left behind went out with a gust of wind from the stage.

-

"No, no, no!" Monsieur Reyer's bellows echoed from wall to wall, causing all movement to cease on and off the stage in anticipation of the rising fight. Stagehands leaned around the wooden sets, ballerinas twirled with their heads constantly pointed in the direction of the choir, and the costume workers' heads appeared between the racks of dresses.

"It iz purfect! Zer iz nothing wrong with adding a leetle flair to a boring song!"

"Carlotta… this is a classical MASTERPIECE not a 'LEETLE BORING SONG' if I EVER hear you insult such a powerful piece of art, I should care to remind you of what you define as art: a screeching incomprehensible mess!"

La Carlotta's gasped in outrage, her hand placed delicately over her heart, almost as if the insult had carved a hole in her pride. Monsieur Reyer began to storm away, but had scarcely taken a few steps before a howling mass of lace and makeup launched itself upon his back.

Several cheers went up as Reyer arched his back, breaking Carlotta's feeble grip and throwing her off his back. He proceeded to brush off his shoulders in a gesture of offense –as though her grip had gotten his clothes dirty. Picking herself off the ground, Carlotta stumbled and whipped the fan she had been using in her act out of her puffy sleeves and brandished it like a knife before charging Monsieur Reyer with her lance extended. Easily spinning aside, Monsieur Reyer nimbly dodged the enraged attack of the wild boar, grabbing the side of her fan as she swept by. Wrenching the lethal weapon from her grasp, he cracked the fan right along its spine and discarded the broken pieces over the edge and into the seating area.

Seething with fury, La Carlotta looked ready to explode in a fiery inferno of accent and nails. However, this visible aggravation was not enough to satiate Reyer's anger at the awful practice and attack of the day. "You might as well have replaced your voice with a frog's croak! What use is singing when it sounds more like the mating calls of primitive animals?"

Evidently, this insult had gone too far for Carlotta and her temper finally broke, resulting in a tidal wave of tears of gargantuan proportions. "I quit! Never again will I sing in such a foul place, with leetle rats like you scampering about and taking leetle nibbles of my fame to feed your intolerable craving for cheese!"

Monsieur Reyer froze up in shocked confusion. He did not care one iota about the possible departure of Carlotta, rather, he encouraged it and had been trying to speed up the process for years; his true confusion lay in the extended metaphor that he was a mouse, thus making him want to eat rare and expensive cheese.

"Do I look like I care? The choir girls that haven't even had official practice on the solos could sing them better than you right now!"

Picking up her skirts, Carlotta began to bustle off towards her dressing room, but a collision with two trembling figures broke her path. Springing to their feet, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin swung their weapons wildly, one barely missing a nearby statue, and the other whacking a backdrop, causing a large rip to appear nearly from side to side.

Regaining their senses, the two stopped their ferocious swirling and gaped in wonder at the new damage they had caused their precious opera house.

"Vat were you theenking you idiot! You could hav kilt me!" Carlotta ferociously slapped the short squat manager upside the head.

"But… but… but... we thought you were the ghost! Coming back to get us! We've been creeping about all day, hiding from this beast! We armed ourselves in case it came back, look!" Both of the managers brandished their makeshift weapon collection of pots and pans. "See?"

"Oh, shut up about your stoopid problems! Zer iz no ghost! Zer never was! I have REAL problems, zis lunatic has called my bootiful voice: a scratching inprehensible nest! I vil not stand it anymore, I am leaving tonight, and one of your precious choir girls can take over and fail at the Prima Donna role for all I care."

Firmin paled. "Mademoiselle… you can't be serious! The performance is only a week off, and the entire theater has already been sold out, we can't afford to cancel the performance because you fail to fulfill your contract! You legally must!"

"And I morally vil not! I vil not perform for you stoopid opera!" Moving away from the two panicking managers, Carlotta continued on her journey away from the man who had so damaged her ego.

Running and pleading behind the pompous diva, Monsieur Firmin failed to make any headway besides simply being dismissed with a small flick of her wrist. Staying behind, Andre leaned against the wall and groaned into his hands. Yet another problem that needed to be solved… and it was likely that there were only two people who could find them a new diva in a week: the only rational helper an already angry aristocrat, and the other a mere legend...

Gesturing to the group of male dancers -who had up to this point been holding their sides in a fit of laughter- Andre ordered, "One of you! Find Monsieur de Chagny, and be quick about it! Bring him a bottle of wine too, so maybe he won't be quite so angry about the intrusion..."

The group mumbled their assent, and a blonde haired and muscular dancer took off to find the vicomte.

Making his way out of the opera house, the man shuddered inside his coat against the chilly city wind. He passed bustling aristocrats being pulled in carriages, narrowly avoided horses, and whirled past the ordinary civilians in the city. Walking towards the aristocratic section of town, he felt a tug on his jacket, and looked down to see a boy who couldn't be more than five trying to gain his attention.

The child was filthy, clad in little more than rags and with nothing on his feet or hands besides some bloody bandages. The little boy sneezed forcefully, and shivered from the cold with chattering teeth while stammering out pleas for help; "Please mister... I have a little sister, couldn't you please... give us some money for some blankets... or maybe a little bit of food?"

The dancer looked down with pity on the child, and toward his destination farther on, but his decision had already been made. "Of course I will little boy... where is your maman?"

"I... don't have... a maman... only... a little sisterrr..." The boy's words came out in gasps against the chilly air, as his shuddering increased and he looked almost to the point of passing out. He pointed towards a small nook where two buildings met; a small pile of torn and disgusting blankets covered the patch of ground, and a young girl little more than three gazed blankly out from under one of the tarps.

He scooped the little boy up, careful not to hurt him, and walked over to the place the boy had pointed. He set the boy down while pulling a large parcel of crackers out of his pocket, offering them to the starving children. Their eyes widened; the food set before them seemed a feast. "This is... wonderful. Thank you Monsieur... what... is your name?" The boy's stammering decreased as a warm and thick jacket fell on his shoulders.

The man shivered momentarily from the cold before responding; "My name is George. I'm a dancer at the Paris Opera House... and I want to help you. No child should be forced to live like this, I won't let you go on like this. So, I have a little errand to run, and then I'll be right back to bring you two back to my home. Alright?"

The two children nodded, their faces too stuffed with crackers to answer. George pulled himself up, and waving a quick farewell, hastened his pace to the de Chagny mansion.

The mansion, with its large stone gargoyles and tall marble pillars came into George's view; he was stunned, as always, by the opulence that the upper class indulged in while the lower class starved and shivered on the streets like the two little children he had found. If this was the outside, he was sure the inside was even more extravagant.

The smooth granite steps shone below his feet as he ascended all the way to the massive oaken doors. In the center of the door was a brass knocker, carved so splendidly that it carried the exact image of the Parisian skyline. Inhaling deeply, he lifted his hand to the knocker and rapped sharply.

Within seconds, a servant flung open the door, bowing deeply while beginning numerous announcements. "Oh Vicomte de Chagny, it is a pleasure for you to return so soon, I expected you to be gone for another hour or so! We shall have the cooks prepare your lunch right away, follow me!"

"Err… I'm not the Vicomte… but I am looking for him! Do you happen to know where I might find him?"

For the first time, the butler looked up. His expression of humble servitude quickly slipped into a disapproving frown, and his eyes narrowed as he glared at the simple dancer. "Oh… a commoner. Don't you know better than to use the front door? Use the servants' entrance for Christ's sake! Get in. Now. Before anyone sees what happened."

The elderly butler reached out the door and swiftly pulled George into the manor by the sleeve of his shirt. Shutting the door behind him, he turned and had halfway started into a shout before seeing the astonished maids staring at the pair, having stopped their cleaning duties in their shock, as if they had never seen a "mere peasant" enter through those doors before.

The man pulled George away, but not before he got a good long look at the palace he had been pulled into. Yes, palace. There were no words with less expensive connotation that could be applied to this place. Decorations adorned every wall, from gargantuan hand woven tapestries covering wall to wall to varying status symbols of shields and swords and portraits of the whole family and each individual member, all life size in proportions. Vases full of fragrant flowers that must have come from all different countries perfumed the air, and glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while beautiful stained glass windows adorned a smaller section on the left side of the room whose open doors revealed a small chapel with statues of saints galore.

However, none of these mere decorations could compare to the actual furniture. Chairs and sofas abounded, covered in velvet, or leather, and adorned with layers of thick and fleecy blankets. An assortment of musical instruments -that appeared as if they had never been touched- rested in one corner of the house, residing next to a bookshelf full of gold and blue bound books whose spines had never been cracked. Ash trays and cigar cases littered the fine side tables handsomely draped with cloths bearing the de Chagny crest, accompanied by several half finished glasses of brandy. Elegant carpets layered each floor and plush curtains blocked almost all of the light.

George's eyes soaked in everything he saw, despite the protests of his body as he was forcibly dragged up the stairs. Kings! They lived like kings! And Comte wasn't even one of the highest nobility titles in the land… No wonder there had been so many revolts, the sheer amount of money that had been invested in the single grand room downstairs could have provided for adequate shelter, furniture, and food for almost all the downtrodden that lived in Paris for a whole year!

His initial shock began to turn into rage. What need did this vicomte need to be angry, and need to be soothed, and gifted a bottle of wine, all in return for helping keep his own business investment afloat? The frivolity and privilege these people were offered… he himself had starved for many days before finally being accepted into the opera house.

His rebellious thoughts were cut short by the realization that he had stopped moving. Twisting his head, George saw the elderly old butler wheezing and clutching his chest from the exertion it had taken to drag a full grown man up the stairs at breakneck speed. The old man coughed,  
and pointed to a small room off the side of the twisting staircase.

"You.. go… there *wheeze*… wait… I'll come… go…" The man's wheezes progressed, and unable to stand the sight of the old man is such pain; George swept him into his arms, just as he had the young boy several minutes before. Pushing open the door with his shoulder, he was again temporarily stunned by the sheer wealth a single room could display. The room had only a few scattered chairs and tables who were presumably used for business meetings, but it was big enough to fit a majority of the opera stage in it. The servant pointed towards an adjoining door, and George slipped in there and found, to his relief, a large bed. Resting the old man on the bed, he waited for the old man's breathing to return to normal before proceeding on.

"The managers of the Paris Opera House sent me to request the help of the Vicomte de Chagny due to a matter pertaining to the need to acquire a new Prima Donna for the upcoming performance."

"Bah! You don't need to use that kind of language here, no one can hear you. I'm sorry about treating you so poorly before… societal norms say I can't allow you to come in that entrance, as it's specifically for the nobles' use. I have nothing against you, and I want to thank you for being so kind as to carry me, you're obviously a good soul. I just can't lose my job… who'll hire a scraggly old man like me? Here at least I have tenure and I'll have people to care for  
me when I get too senile to work. What's your name?"

"George. And yours?"

"Alexander, but most people just call me Xander. Where's your coat?"

"I gave it to a young boy who was freezing with his sister on the side of the road. He has more use for it than me."

"You truly are a good soul… so, opera business? He'll be here in maybe an hour, along with His Idiocy, the Comte de Chagny. You may as well wait here, and I'll call you down when he comes." Xander swung his legs over the side of the bed, and paused a few seconds before fully regaining his balance.

"Eh… nice wine you have. I'm sure he won't notice if it goes missing… I'll just say I brought it to the cellars." With eyes twinkling, Xander marched off proudly with his new prize.

George chuckled as the old man left, and settled himself in one of the overstuffed armchairs with a disgusting cat pattern printed on it. He had a whole hour to wait? That was more than sufficient time for a pleasant and well deserved nap…

Xander practically skipped up the doors from the wine cellar; he had swindled the man who ran the wine cellar into letting him have practically all the wine, with only a small bit paid as tribute for hiding it for him… In a quite merry mood, he went about his usual household duties of managing and micromanaging, and waiting by the main door in case there was a knock…

And a knock there was. About thirty minutes after the fiasco with George, there were several loud and angry pounds on the door. Rushing to make himself presentable and smooth any wrinkles out of his attire, Xander regally opened the door and bowed deeply while reiterating his prior message to the dancer. "Oh Vicomte de Chagny, it is a pleasure for you to return so soon, I expected you to be gone for another hour-"

"I have important business matters to attend to. Don't disturb us until you have had some sandwiches made up, and then bring them up to us as quickly as possible and leave us alone after that." Raoul's harsh words stung Xander as he recoiled in surprise before he had gotten a good look at Raoul's guests; however, he had enough time to note uneasily that Philippe wasn't there...

Skittering off to the kitchen, he hastily ordered the maids to work before returning to peer around the corner at the guests. _Oh… them. So that's why he was so rude…_ Shaking his head in disgust, Xander returned to the kitchen to see about those sandwiches.

Within ten minutes, the sandwiches had been fixed and set on a platter that Xander hurriedly brought up the stairs, pausing only momentarily to ponder which room they had gone into. The door he had left open when leaving George had now become tightly shut. Eyes widening, Xander heard the dangerous voices echoing underneath the door.

Shoving all the napkins on the tray into the sides of his shirt, Xander knocked hesitantly on the door, and instantly all talk stopped.

"Come in."

Xander opened the door nervously, and sprinted to the table Raoul was sitting at with his colleagues and set the tray on the table. Bowing, he waited for the inevitable big-mouth on Raoul's right hand side to criticize.

"No napkins… what, do you expect us to eat like pigs? Fetch us some napkins you old shit!" The broad and evidently strength over brain cells man's devilish little pig eyes squinted and gleamed as he gloated over his newfound victim. From the past times he had encountered the man, Xander had long since come to realize that he was a cruel aristocrat that enjoyed nothing more than harassing the helpless.

Xander smacked his forehead. "Oh, I forgot them in the other room when preparing for your arrival, sir! Let me go get them now. Xander shot to the adjoining door, and was greeted by George's trembling figure sitting petrified in the armchair.

Pulling the napkins out from under his shirt, he frantically straightened them, while placing a finger to his lips and pointing under the bed, where he would be hidden from view by the frilly bedspread that overhung the edges.

George nodded his understanding, and ducked under the bed making scarcely more than a ruffle of fabric as he moved.

Inhaling deeply to suppress a shudder, Xander returned the other room with the flattened napkins and placed them delicately on the table, receiving a sign of dismissal from Raoul and another cruel insult from the pig-man.

"'Bout time ugly."

Completely immune by this point to the jeering insults, Xander bowed deeply, and held his head high as he walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once outside, Xander moved his feet past the frame of the door so as to avoid casting a shadow, and pressed his ear against the polished wood in an effort to hear the conversation, but the wood muffled it all and he could discern nary a word, exactly as the business meeting was designed to be.

However, there was no wood door blocking George's hearing.

Trembling under the bed, George's mind was once again subjected to the horrific conversation of the men in the other room.

"You know Raoul… I've been thinking a lot about our current business enterprise… you owe me a lot of money."

"Yes, I know sir, but I'm going to pay it all back. The de Chagnys are men of their word. I've already paid back the majority of the gambling debts from the last year."

"Yes… from the last year. And who knows what will come up this year? That brother of yours… I just can't bring myself to turn him away when he comes to my club crying…"

Raoul's tone changed sharply. "You're sick, you know that? You come demanding money to compensate my brother's debts…make it all sound like you're doing me a big favor… but you're really purposefully dragging him into those clubs so that you can get him to spend more money! You probably rig it permanently against him, because you know he'll keep playing!"

"Hm… Raoul, such harsh accusations for one so young. Need I cash in all of your debts right now? Wreck the opera house? Seize all your goods? Raffle off your mansion to compensate for the debts you've gained over the years? Now, I think we can come to an understanding here…"

Raoul's face paled at the words. Everything? He couldn't bear to lose that. "I'm sorry sir… I was out of line, I swear it won't happen again, the opera season is starting soon so I'll get you your money then, and I'll keep Philippe from the clubs, and I'll get your money, and pay off all of the debts, and atone for my sins…"

"Oh Raoul, you make it sound so simple. The laws of society dictate that a mere vicomte cannot control a comte… and that's why I refused to let you drag Philippe home. The shame that would come onto your family from the breaking of such old and sacred rules, and the legal troubles… tut tut, that just wouldn't do, now would it? You're not going to stop Philippe from doing anything… and I'll know if you did. Now, you are going to bring me more money. You are going to double your current monthly payments. I expect to see the first part of my money by the end of next month."

By this point, Raoul's face had become paler and paler. "T… t… twice as much? How am I supposed to do that? I have trouble enough as it is paying for half of that… I can't. I won't. It's not possible to do that."

"I'm afraid that you must. As you know, we have some ah, unpleasant information about the things you've had to do to obtain even that money. You know, mysterious disappearances, deaths, missing…"

"ALL RIGHT I GET THE POINT." Raoul exploded from his chair, seething in anger. "I'll get your money, and I know I had to kill some people to get what I did in the past. You and I both know Buquet wasn't the first… and he wasn't the last. I'll get your money."

The chairs rustled in the other room as the creditor sat back in his chair lazily. "Oh, I'm sure you will. I'll just finish smoking my cigar, and my friends and I will be on my way…"

Several long and tense minutes passed. Nervous footsteps echoed into George's hiding spot as Raoul paced from one side of the room to the other. Finally, the thickly accented stranger and his "friends" rose from their chairs and began to head towards the door.

"Oh Raoul, and remember… there are two assets of the Opera House you really haven't tapped yet… One you know, but the other, you will find out in time… Sweet dreams, Raoul, maybe you'll even have the pleasure of seeing Joseph Buquet again…"

The pacing stopped. With an aggravated battle cry, Raoul sprinted across the room, only to run headfirst into the door the men had slammed shut. Recoiling back, he fell to the floor.

The door opened once more, and soft, quiet footsteps passed over the body of Raoul and stopped right outside the entryway to the next room.

Then, he entered. Step by step, he made his way closer to the bed George hid under, each sound becoming more and more pronounced the closer he came.

He whipped the bed cover over to reveal George's shocked and terrified face.

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**These three things are actually important**.

**A/N **Issue #1 So, my summary sucks right now. I'm awful at writing summaries, so I would really appreciate it if someone could make a really interest grabbing one that captures the idea of wicked, where the only reason the witch is made evil is so that the wizard can save face, even though he was the awful guy the whole time. So, Raoul does the same thing to Erik, and that's what creates ALW's musical/Leroux. If someone could please leave a review with that, or PM me, I would be so happy I'll do a back flip, and the best one will become my new summary/I'll give you some other story related reward if you can think of one.

Issue #2 I can see ALL of you that look at my story, and there's a good 60+ people that have been following along every chapter... and I get three reviews. Yes, I can see EVERY single one of you that reads this, and I would really appreciate if you'd take the time to type a few little words in this beautiful box below, as the reviews really help me to write, and they break my writer's block a lot of times. Otherwise, it takes like an hour to type 100 words, and that's going to lead to really slow updates, and an aggravated writer. More reviews=faster writing=faster updates.

Issue #3 Length: This chapter is about twice as long as some of my other ones... is it better longer, or shorter? It took forever to write even though I was feeling super inspired and what not, so longer chapters would likely mean slower updates.

Thanks again to all of my amazing reviewers. You guys really are the reasons it doesn't take me two hours to write a hundred words.

I commend you,

~Partyin'Penguins

ALSO, I am aware Erik was first person for a while... I just felt it was the best way to describe his thoughts.


	9. Managing

**A/N :** Thanks to all who reviewed! It really does help me a lot, and strangely enough gives me chapter ideas...  
I'm really sorry about the wait, I had a lot of surprise homework assignments this week that took up a lot of my writing time, along with math team meets, and the premiere of breaking dawn (I laughed the entire time).

**CaptainHooksGirl:** Doesn't everyone love some Carlotta bashing and metaphors that don't make any sense? And yes... George is definitely a really good guy, and you'll find out more about those little kiddies in this chapter. Thanks for the feedback on chapter length too!  
**Hello:** Always nice to have a guest reviewer! And yes, my plot line is going to be complex... at least it will be once I discover the finer details, as I pretty much discover it about a day earlier than you guys do. It'll be just like Lost! Except not massively confusing... Thanks for the summary feedback!  
**13Aphrodite: **Yeah, I was really happy with the last chapter in terms of length, and plot revelations. Obviously, this is going to be a longer story... but I will try to extend the chapters in length, probably mostly through showing each of the different interacting parts in the story... like opera shenanigans, Raoul, George, and Christine the curious (and obviously Erik) that were in last chapter. Thanks for the length feedback!  
**PhantomFan01:** I'm trying to include Monsieur Reyer more in this story, because ever since seeing his harassment of Piangi over his inability to properly sing a few notes in the musical, I've deemed him quite sassy and believe he makes an excellent background character. Also, Raoul... he's probably the character with the most issues in this story that aren't his fault. And George, well, what more can I say than he's supposed to be one of the few legitimately kind people in the world?  
**Phanatic01:**Thanks! I always felt Christine and her angel's introduction need more focus than a lot of fanfictions give it. Also, as for Wicked... It's not so much the individual events in Wicked, as the fact that I'm going to say that the ALW musical was written with information from Raoul... so while the events are the same, there is very very different motivation behind the two, and I'm definitely going to throw in some Raoul-Erik animosity. If I had to characterize... I'd say Raoul is Glinda/The Wizard later, Erik is Elphaba (gee I wonder why), and Christine is Fiyero. By the way, this is all more off the wicked musical than the book... I much prefer the musical. God the characters all fit so perfectly. However, if you have any ideas as to how to make it more Wicked-esque, I'm all ears! And Raoul is supposed to be the ultimate deteriorating character, he's not so bad to start off, and even at this point, he's just under heavy stress. By the way, your story's great! Still working my way through it...

Oh god I wrote so much...

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Chapter Eight

_Managing_

As each footstep came closer and closer to his hiding spot, the dread that had initially crept through George's body turned into a torrential river. If he was found by those men... well, they had no aversion to killing, and were no strangers to it either as had their earlier overheard conversation had revealed.

The footsteps halted, and George heard heavy breathing, and saw a pair of well shined black shoes peeking out below the covers, dangerously close to his hiding place under the bed. George squirmed backwards as quietly as he could.

A hand shot down and shoved the cover over the bed, revealing George's shocked face.

An old, wizened face grinned back at him.

"So, you survived that encounter. Let's get you out of this room and elsewhere, so Raoul doesn't discover you... if that evil creditor ever found out you were here... Well, your extent of knowledge as to his wrongdoings is probably far greater than mine at this point. Come along!" Xander gestured towards the door and placed a single finger to his lips, a gesture for complete silence during their escape. Xander walked out the door, walking on tiptoe so he would make as little noise as possible.

What George saw in the business room made his breath catch in his throat.

Raoul de Chagny lay unconscious on the floor, blood seeping from a nasty cut on his forehead where something sharp had obviously hit him with tremendous force. The door was slightly ajar, with a few blood drops along the side of the door. A gun lay a matter of inches from his hand.

Xander looked down at the body wistfully, and slipped around the body and gently creaked the door open, gesturing again for George to follow. Inhaling deeply, George began to walk past the vicomte.

Raoul's hand twitched right as George's foot passed over it, just brushing the bottom of his shoe. George froze in paralysis, his body refusing to cooperate. Stuck in limbo above the body, his escape seemed almost impossible. Slowly, his balance began to fail, one foot still in the air, and one foot poised delicately between an arm and a leg.

The hand twitched again. Xander's eyes widened, realizing that his friend's momentary frozen state was not likely to pass. In a single bound he reached George, and yanked him fiercely away from the vicomte. Unfortunately, the dancer's foot caught de Chagny's leg as he moved past, dragging his leg across the ground.

Without a moment to spare, Xander shoved George out the door and into another room several doors over. Grabbing a towel from a supply closet as he went, Xander raced back into the room where Raoul lay, only to find the very puzzled Vicomte groaning and rubbing his head, smearing blood all across his face and the carpet.

Sighing in aggravation, Xander went to Raoul's side and helped the man up, pulling his body to a comfortable chair where he lay him down, and paused a moment to recover from the exertion. Lifting the white towel to Raoul's forehead he patted the wound lightly -ignoring Raoul's pained groans- and finally settled the towel atop his head to soak up the blood.

"Xander... were you just in here? I... I woke up to something dragging my leg... but when I looked up, I saw you, but I think I saw someone else too... This must be my punishment for listening to those men, and doing what they tell me, rather than what is right…"

"Oh Vicomte, I know you all the foul things you have done have only been to protect your family… And I was just in here; I was the one who moved your leg. I heard a door slam shut right before those awful men left... and I came in here and found you, bloodied and unconscious on the floor. It terrified me. I pulled your leg to see if you were responding, and when you started moving, I ran out of the room to get a towel to help stem the flow of blood... It was just me you saw, I think you might just be in a daze."

"But... I saw someone... I'm sure! Please believe me... I'm sure that I'm not hallucinating, there were definitely two people, there must have been..." Raoul's panic began to build, becoming more and more intense to the point where he began to hyperventilate and appeared at the point of passing out.

"No, the only person you saw was me. Calm down, sir. I shall get the maids to fetch you some bandages, and then we have some business to attend to. Just stay here please." Xander patted Raoul's hand soothingly, and walked out the door. The old man sprinted down the stairs -surprisingly spry for his age- and ordered a maid to bring all of the necessary materials up to Raoul, before returning to the linen closet to grab a clean towel.

When he reentered the room, he crossed to the armchair Raoul rested in. His heart dropped the second he removed the towel. It was no longer a crisp white; it was a blood soaked red mess. The wound that had previously been hidden by the coagulating blood was much deeper than he had expected; he hadn't understood how deep a cut a simple run in with a door could yield.

The maid arrived with the bandages, and Xander set the container of medical materials down on the table next to him. Raoul gazed up at him, the excruciating pain he felt visible in the single look. Xander washed the remaining blood from his head.

"Thank you... I can't thank you enough. I hate those people, I hate what I have to do for them, I hate the power they have over me, and I hate that you have to see me like this, so broken and needing support when I should be supporting you and everyone else here..."

"Shh, Raoul. You don't need to worry, everyone falls down sometimes. Just finish your business with those men and stay away from them forever. All they're going to bring you is trouble." By the time the butler finished, clean white bandages covered the entirety of Raoul's head, completely hiding the gash across his skull. Satisfied with his work, Xander walked around to another chair, and settled down, holding Raoul's soft, sturdy hands in his own rough, calloused ones.

Raoul's eyes shined with tears; "Thank you Xander... you've cared for me since my youth, and I can never thank you enough for all you've done for me. You're family to me now, and I'm so sorry to disappoint you because of the things I've had to do thanks to Philippe's mistakes... Words can't express how much regret and shame I feel for the things I have to do. I swear it'll be over as soon as I can get out. I promise you, Xander. I promise."

"Raoul, it's alright. I know you don't want to do whatever they're making you... you're still a good person. Let's talk about other things. There's a man here to see you, from the Opera House! I'll come bring him in."

Xander pulled himself up off the chair and walked out the door. The door a few rooms over was open, and George sat upon the bed, considerably calmed down from his earlier panic. George rose and followed him back to Raoul's room.

Raoul had switched chairs, so that he faced his guest as he walked in the door. His eyes slightly widened as he saw the dancer, but they returned to their normal size within milliseconds. He extended his hand and smiled broadly, despite being evidently false.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting before. You're from the Opera House? Production going well, I hope? How may I be of service?"

Overloaded with questions, George attempted to figure out which to answer first. "Well, my name is George Versaille, Monsieur. And yes, I am from the Opera House and the production is coming along splendidly. You see Monsieur, we appear to have lost our Prima Donna... she ran off after a fight with the chorus instructor. We need your help to find a new one."

Raoul's face paled. "A... a... new Prima Donna? But there's only a week left before the production! How can anyone learn the role so quickly?"

"I'm not sure, Monsieur. Could you please come to the Opera House? I'm sure that the managers would appreciate talking to you. I brought you a bottle of wine... Xander had it brought down to the cellars."

"Oh, I'm certain he's brought it down to the cellars, for himself that is," a twinkle gleamed in Raoul's eye as he good-naturedly glared at Xander, who shrugged his shoulders unashamed, "how long were you here exactly...?"

"Oh... uh, a bit. I believe I arrived here before you..." Raoul's eyes again narrowed a fraction.

"Very well. I'll be over there once my wound allows me to travel. Go along without me."

Nodding in agreement, George bowed deeply and slipped out the door with a hurried goodbye. As soon as he was outside the door, he let out a sigh of relief. Oh, of all the situations to be in! The vicomte had seemed a bit suspicious, how long would it be before he discovered the extent of his knowledge... But when he had overheard Vicomte Raoul speaking to Xander he was so kind... Oh, what a paradox of a man! And those poor children had been outside the entire time...

With renewed vigor at the thought of the two children shivering in the street, he hurried down the stairs, and through the kitchen and out the servant door the maids pointed him to.  
Frost shone on the window panes that George passed, and it was obvious that winter was coming soon, and would cause serious harm to anyone that dared to stay out during the bone-chilling weather.

Passing each block, he got closer and closer to his new friends. By the time they came into view, George was frozen solid without the frayed but warm winter jacket he had left with the two children. He saw their blue faces peeking out from under the jacket.

Smiling because the pair was still there, George swept over to their pile of ragged blankets and knelt down next to the two. "Come on you two, it's time to come back to my apartment. You can't stay out like this anymore." Sweeping his jacket over his shoulders, he scooped the two children up and hurried back towards the opera house, but veered off a street too early, stopping at a run down looking building. He pushed a key into the door, and it clicked open.

He set the two young children down and ascended the rickety stairs up a flight to the second floor. There, he took a left and walked down the worn corridor to the room at the very end, and shoved open the door, bringing the two little ones inside. The inside had little but a thin mattress on a small wooden frame, there was a small fireplace with a pile of logs next to it, and a small kettle on the hearth. Two small chairs were in the corner of the simple room with a table next to them, and several blankets were scattered around the cozy room.

The two children's eyes were wide open, staring at what to them could only be a palace compared to their earlier squalor in an alley. George's eyes glowed with happiness, to know that he could provide such happiness to these two children.

"What are your names? You know mine's George, but you never told me yours."

"Oh... I'm Pierre, and this is my little sister Annette. We... we don't have a last name." The boy looked down, ashamed at this lack of a status symbol. He shuffled his feet nervously, and George noticed massive holes where the boy's toes stuck out.

"It's fine to not have a last name. I know quite a few people without them, and some of the most famous people in Paris choose not to include their last names, because they're so famous people recognize them by their given names. Maybe you'll be one of those people one day, don't fret about not having a last name. Does your sister speak, or are you the one that does all the talking?"

"I speak! I speak! I like talk!" George chuckled as little Annette finally opened her mouth, and was rather happy that she hadn't been so traumatized by street life that she had never learned to speak.

"I hear you, little one. Are you two hungry? You only had a packet of crackers... and we're going to have to get you two some new shoes and clothes eventually, I can't believe you were out in such cold weather with broken shoes and torn clothing." George walked over to the chest leaning against the wall and opened it to reveal bread and two fresh eggs. He picked up his jacket from where he had set it on the chair, and searched his pockets for the knife that he usually carried in there, but found nothing.

The knife was missing.

Whirling around, George came face to face with the little ruffians who had been wearing his coat, and saw in Pierre's hand a small pocket knife which had been folded nicely away. Unfortunately, Pierre's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he was attempting to pry the knife out of its protective case.

"No no no!" Pierre looked up startled, "Pierre, I need that knife back, otherwise I can't cut this bread for you and your sister, okay?" Pierre nodded and handed the knife over to George's outstretched hand. George sighed in relief; "You two, don't ever touch this knife without my permission. You could seriously hurt yourselves, okay?" Bread fell in thick slices onto the little table between the two chairs, and Pierre and Annette nodded vigorously, their attention entirely focused on the bread.

George groaned, they were never going to hear him if they were so distracted by the bread! He picked up the slices and held them in the air above the children's reach. "Now, you have to promise me, that if you're going to get this bread, you will never ever ever touch this knife without my permission, alright?" Now practically foaming at the mouth, the two children nodded even more vigorously, and swore up and down that they would keep their word.

The first slices of bread disappeared in a matter of seconds. George had to tear his hand away just to avoid the gnawing teeth of the two starved children as they tried to shove more and more bread into their mouths, greedily devouring everything in sight. Moving towards the door, he swept his jacket over his shoulder and swept out, promising to return later after his job at the opera was over.

He strode towards the opera house, prepared to encounter any obstacle set before him.

The Paris Opera House, unlike George, was not quite ready to face any obstacle set before it: the current unprepared battle being with an angry Vicomte de Chagny.

A glass flew over Monsieur Firmin's head, just brushing his new voluminous wig to the side. The man trembled in fear, and shuddered in horror as the vicomte rounded on him again.

"So, does THAT look like your mysterious ghost? A flying glass? No? WELL MAYBE THIS DOES," a pair of bifocals followed the earlier glass's trajectory, "Did that look like it? Still believe in this ghost? Maybe I'll refresh your memory with this..." A flurry of papers flew into the air, scattering all of the managers' finances across the small office.

"Not only do you continue to mock me with your pathetic excuse for managing, calling me for things such as flying GHOSTS and now... oh now you've gone too far. You're managing an opera house, and you don't even have a Prima Donna! I don't pay for you to lose my money! I invest to get a profit back from these performances. Do you know what I can't get money from? CANCELLED PERFORMANCES."

Firmin's knees began clacking together in his fright. He slunk back into a corner, horrified by this outburst and questioning his colleague's earlier judgment to call Vicomte de Chagny.

"That's.. That's... that's why we need your help! So there are no cancelled performances..."

Raoul growled furiously and stalked about the room, his forehead pulsing, pumping blood throughout his body in an adrenaline crazed rush; the bandage on his head began to bloody from the exertion that his body had taken in his tirade against the incompetent baboon that had so callously jeopardized the one consistent source of revenue for debts over the past few years.

"If you find a new singer within a day, call me here. If not, you better be begging at Carlotta's feet for her return afterwards while I try to find us a replacement. If you have any inkling of ANY possible other than that wretched fit-pitching pig USE THEM. I don't care if it's a simple chorus girl, or even a ballet girl, or a kitchen maid if you please, if they can sing well enough to satisfy the patrons, they're on. I'm leaving now, to try and sort out this awful mess you and your counterpart idiot have gotten us into. Good day."

Raoul shoved past Firmin out of the office, slamming the door forcefully behind him as he stalked out, murmuring obscenities as he went. Firmin had to clutch the chair for support before he collapsed. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead, the handkerchief becoming soaked in sweat in less than seconds.

The curtains blocking the window to the opera stage rustled.

Firmin's head snapped up, and he snatched a letter opener that had been lying on the desk and brandished it at the curtain, tripping over his own feet in his haste to find a battle ready stance.

"Who's there! Come out you fiend!" Firmin swung his letter opener left and right, slaying imaginary foes on all sides of him. A pair of feet poked out from underneath the curtain. Firmin looked down at the well shined shoes and cocked his head, surprised at their appearance below the thick material. Slowly, the red velvet shifted, and a hand appeared along the side, pulling it sharply away, to reveal the pudgy face of Monsieur Andre.

Shoulders slumped in relaxation, and the pair chuckled out their relief at having each other on the other side of the curtain, instead of one angry Opera Ghost with a letter opener for a sword.

Andre slipped to the wooden cabinets on the wall, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of brandy, tipping his head to Firmin as he went.

"I think we both deserve something to relax us, no?"

"Oh, I quite agree, Andre. Fill my glass up!"

The glasses clinked and the two fellows cheerfully chugged their brandy all in one sitting, knocking glasses again before getting themselves second helpings.

"So Andre... what were you doing behind that curtain? I don't know of any self respecting manager that hides behind his curtains when there's business to be done."

"Well... I heard someone furiously banging doors as they came up here... so I hid, only to discover you and some guest that must have been donating money to the Opera House come in and start yelling... and throwing things. Who was that? Vicomte de Chagny? I was terrified that it was the Opera Ghost..."

Firmin's face reddened deeply. "You... left me with THAT all by myself? You KNEW it might have been the Opera Ghost and you just left me hanging? ANDRE! WHAT were you THINKING? Oh, let's leave Firmin to a very painful death while I hide behind a curtain, hearing glasses and objects whizzing by his head, I mean, he certainly couldn't use any help..."

Andre paled and shrunk back farther into his chair; "I... I... I just... I..."

Firmin leapt to his feet, with glass in hand, and glared down at Monsieur Andre. "So... shall we reenact the previous events?" Issuing a battle cry, Firmin was hot on Andre's trail as he sprinted out of the office and down the steps of the opera house, the glass that had previously been in Firmin's hand flying past Andre's head and smashing against the wall with a resounding crash.

Erik's head snapped up after something forcefully slammed against the wall a story above him.

His senses told him there was nothing to fear, but nonetheless he felt an unnatural urge to check what had happened, on even the small chance that it might pose a threat to either he or the angel sleeping on his couch.

His home was completely silent for the next several minutes. After the silence soothing his worries about more attacks -or whatever was going on up there- he sighed in relief and turned to stare at his angel again, remembering fondly the feel of her body in his arms as he carried her down to his lair...

When he had finally begun walking from the site of Christine's nearly fatal accident with his trap, his paranoia about her safety increased every second spent on the journey through the dank and dark corroding opera house walls from a second to an hour. He felt nothing besides the need to return her to his home; not the pains in his arms from carrying Christine and a cat for so long; not the complaints of his legs from walking for so long; not pains from wearing his mask for so long; the only emotion he felt was _need, _the need to keep her safe from what had only been his own fault.

The only pauses in his trip were to deactivate traps, to avoid more disastrous events like the previous one. A Punjab here, more lethal poison there, another trap door, a revolving statue activated by a trip wire... the traps went on and on, the truly lethal ones only close to his home.

Even though he had traveled for less than half an hour, it felt like days to him, and his panic increased and increased the closer he came to his home. What if she should wake? What would he say to her? How could she ever forgive him for what he had put her through by having those traps in the first place... every little step he had made towards her over the past six years had been undone by this one single night!

Erik hurried faster and faster, and did not stop moving until he felt his shoes and pants begin to turn wet; in his haste he had not even noticed that he had begun walking straight into the lake.

He held Christine higher, trying to keep her body from the water, lest she catch some awful disease from being wet without anything to change into. Erik backed out to the pathway again, seeking his gondola. Mysteriously, it had floated all the way to an obscure corner, and Erik had to set Christine down and heaved heavily to dislodge it from its spot.

Picking Christine back up, he stepped into the gondola, carefully maintaining his balance with a skill that only a practiced professional could do. Christine was set down snugly between the seats, keeping her from shifting drastically and possibly upsetting the boat.

The oar rose and fell at a frantic pace, pushing the pair swiftly along the top of the water to Erik's domain. The front of the boat landed on the sloping entrance, and the phantom savior jumped out of the boat before carefully lifting his protégé from the wooden craft and then moved inland.

Dismayed by the disorder within his house, Erik shoved piles of paper off of tables and his couch, to prepare a proper place for Christine to sleep. Although it really would be more beneficial to have a bed...

Groaning inwardly, Erik mentally berated himself for not putting his plans to make a room for Christine into action earlier. He had thought that only after the first performance of Hannibal would she come down, and instead she was in his home days before all of his furnishings were set to be picked up. He'd have to see that they were finished more quickly...

He tested her temperature, though his icy cold fingers made it hard to discern whether or not she had a fever. Irritated again at the things he couldn't provide her all as a product of his face, Erik settled for setting about preparing herbal remedies to destroy any leftover toxins in her bloodstream when she awoke.

While her medicine boiled, Erik sat in a chair next to the red couch Christine laid upon, just looking at her in awe.

_Perfection everywhere._

Her voice was perfect, her personality was perfect, her hair was perfect, her eyes were perfect, her body was perfect, and her face was perfect too...

Erik didn't know how long he sat like that. Just sitting and waiting, gazing the entire time at Christine, listening to each individual breath of air moving in and out of her mouth.

His body may have been frozen in its place, but the wheels in his head were turning at breakneck speed, considering each and every possibility and scenario of Christine's wake up, and the best way to keep him in her favor.

The current possibility he had been considering was convincing Christine it was all a dream, and pretending that the traumatic incident with the dart hadn't happened.

While mulling over the possible hallucination stories he could create to rectify the situation, Christine stirred. She moved slowly at first; a single finger twitch, a single move of an arm, a leg twisting, then eyes fluttering, heart racing, panicked gasps, whole body shudder, and eyes shooting open.

_Yes, his angel was awake. _

Distraught and confused, Christine whirled herself into a sitting position, taking in almost all of her surroundings in a single glance, petrified at not knowing where she was. Her eyes settled on Erik, and within milliseconds her rigid form relaxed and she exhaled deeply.

Her eyes didn't leave his for several minutes. The pair stared directly into the other's eyes, not speaking a word.

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**AN: Please don't forget to review!**

**AN: 11/23/2012 I've tried quite a few times to write another chapter for this story... but I have some serious writer's block that just WON'T go away. If you're reading this, please review; I HATE writer's block, and I'm incredibly angry that I can't write anything worthwhile, and if it keeps up I probably won't be able to write another chapter for a few weeks. A few seconds out of your time to write a review really really helps me beat writer's block back to the hole it came from. Please help me out.**


	10. Gondola

Yes, I know this has been a while, and I'm sorry. I was/am suffering from SEVERE writer's block that not even Phantom music can cure D: 'Tis exceptionally distressing.

However, despite any of my excuses, as doomsday is tomorrow I felt the need to get this up before the entire world ends.

Merry day before the world ends!

That being said, as always, thank you to my few constant reviewers!

CaptainHooksGirl: Writing about Firmin and Andre is probably one of the better parts of writing fanfiction. I mean, besides the obvious Erik and Christine scenes. Since they were always bumbling about and being idiots, why not show what idiotic things they're actually doing, rather than focus on one thing? Also, angry Vicomte scenes tend to take the cake in my opinion. Thanks for sticking through with me!  
PhantomFan01: Yeah, she's pretty much ok. Couldn't kill off my main characters so early in the plot, gotta save that for later... I'm just kidding though. Thanks for sticking with me and reviewing!

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Chapter Nine

_Gondola_

Christine's curiosity was raging out of control.

The only person this could possibly be was her angel. After she had passed out in her room, she had gotten a few seconds to commit a blurry outline of his shape and face to memory. They seemed remarkably similar. She remembered part of his face as exceptionally pale when she had seen it the first time... that must have been his mask, and her vision had just distorted it.

But how had she gotten here? Oh what did it matter, she was with her angel!

_Finally_... she was finally meeting him! Oh, her teacher of all those years... at last she had truly met the genius, the one who had given her voice its flight; happiness overwhelmed her senses and made her radiate exuberant joy.

Her hands, which had been previously knotted together in her lap, broke free and she raised a tentative hand towards his face, toward that mysterious mask that blocked him from view.

"MROWWW."

A profound screech echoed throughout the room, startling the two people and making them jump apart, breaking their gaze. Again, the wail came from across the lake, becoming more and more desperate each time it was repeated.

Christine's entire body felt weak, and she could barely move. However, she would recognize that terrified noise anywhere: her cat was in trouble.

She forced herself off the couch, commanding her stiff limbs to cooperate and carry her towards the sound. She passed through a doorway, and reached the edge of a dark lake; she leaned against a post alongside the house to keep her balance, and searched for Sir Marque on the other side.

Sir Marque was across the lake -and surrounded by enormous rats. These rats were the size of possums, and had formed a circle around Sir Marque, dashing in and out of the ring and attempting to fight him. Sir Marque was evidently quite irritated by these beasts that dare wreck his peace, and was fighting them tooth and nail: the growing pile of dead vermin at his feet testimony to the enraged killer his furry face hid. However, for every rat that he killed, two more appeared.

Within seconds of her first glimpse of the fight, Christine had spotted the gondola Erik had left on the shore. She jumped in, shoving it from shore and paddling frantically across the water towards her cat. Even with the adrenaline rush from panic, her limbs still made her move slowly and her muscles ached with each motion.

Erik's shock released him, and he shot out his front door. _Where?_ He spotted her shoving his craft off and flailing the paddle over through the water, sending her floating at a decent clip towards the fight.

Erik's panicked. "Christine! NO! You're too weak, and there are rats!" Erik gripped his hair in horror, practically ready to yank it out. Christine glanced briefly over her shoulder, but continued paddling across with even more determination than before.

There was simply nothing else to do. He threw himself into the water, and frantically swam to catch up to Christine on the craft. Each stroke was deliberate, sending him surging forward and rapidly catching up to the gondola. They had almost reached shore.

Christine was only a few feet away from the path across the lake when she felt a hand grabbing the back of her boat, knocking her off balance. Her change in balance forced a powerful stroke of the oar, only to result in a clunk as her oar hit something that was definitely not the water.

A white mask flew across the water, and landed in front of her, accompanied by a cry of pain. Christine's head whipped around and she saw her angel floundering in the water, one hand covering the right side of his face the other flailing about wildly.

She gasped at her own foolishness; turning to extend her hand towards the man his arm flailed once more, and a furry bundle leaped into her lap at exactly the wrong time.

The combination of imbalance, a leaping cat, and an arm hitting the boat finally toppled it. The shaky craft went tumbling over, sending Christine and Sir Marque flying over the right side of the boat and into the cold water.

Christine's lungs screamed for air after the first huge gulp of water she swallowed. She kicked her legs, frantic to reach the surface and get the oxygen her body needed. The surface was rapidly moving away from her; she gasped again underwater and kicked her legs, the heavy weight of her soaked dress dragging her down more and more every second.

"Christine!"

He yelled her name, grabbing her arm and dragging her across the water and up and over the edge before setting her down, coughing water up the entire time into the sleeve of his jacket.

A small and wet face nosed her own, prodding her for evidence that she was alive. She raised her head towards him - just in time to see a rat running full speed towards her.

And then it disappeared. A hand reached down and grabbed it, flinging it across the stone path where it hit the wall with a sickening crack, falling to the floor lifeless. Eyes widened in shock as she saw three more rats go flying in the same manner, each flight ending with a similar, sickening crunch.

Eyes searched upwards, and she saw her angel, and a glimpse of something that must be his face...

She rolled over and scooped up Sir Marque - who had been attempting to feast on one of the more recent flying rats - and scooted closer to the Phantom. She grabbed his coattails as he gripped another rat scurrying away.

"Angel! Let us go and avoid these rats..." The man above her looked down and gave a half smile, before becoming an expression of horror.

Erik's head pounded as he looked down at Christine's wide blue eyes. _My mask!_ One hand shot to cover his face, the other gripping Christine's dress sleeve, pulling her up and she stumbled along; he righted the boat and mumbled that she must go inside, which she nodded enthusiastically to.

Sweeping his gaze across the stone, he saw naught but the rat bodies beneath the wall or in the cat's stack of kills. Turning instead to the water, he saw it bobbing up and down, eerily white against the darkness the night cast over his lair.

Snatching it from the surface, he flung it on haphazardly, damaging his already tender flesh with its hasty placement. He straightened it out and turned back, hands calmly placed behind his back, and he strolled back - kicking an oncoming rat to the side as he went.

He stepped into the craft and extended his hand for the oar. Christine looked at him in baffled confusion for a second before realizing what he wanted, and then promptly grabbed the paddle and shoved it into his hand, nearly upsetting the gondola again.

His hand shot out, steadying the gondola before placing his other foot in, and began paddling back towards his lair.

Christine looked up at him in wonder: he was so regal, but yet so uncomfortable with the position at the same time.

He was tall and his frame was very lean, but evidently strong enough to send the gondola cruising at a fast pace. His mask... he had been so scared when he had lost it, so concerned about it. What was behind there that he feared her seeing so much? It could only be something about his face. Her small glimpse hadn't been that terrible... just something different from the smooth skin on the left half of his face.

Christine snorted. Not that different was bad. She was quite different from the typical dancer tart, and that was quite obviously a good thing, considering she hadn't been thrown out onto the streets with a prominent bump by her stomach.

His eyes moved down and he locked gazes with her. She stared back, quite unperturbed by the unnatural length with which he held her gaze; they only broke off when the collision with the shore startled her, making her jump.

Sweeping Sir Marque up in her arms, she proceeded to stand up shakily and clutched the edge of the gondola for support.

"No, no, no! A lady should not exert herself like that!" The Phantom's arms swept around her and he lifted her in the air and set her down on the bank, holding her elbow and guiding her back to the couch.

Her entire body relaxed as she sat down, and she glanced back up at Erik for a fleeting second.

"You're looking at me because I am all wet? Oh, my dear, it's raining cats and dogs outside!" Erik smirked, and Christine chuckled lightly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of raining cats and rats outside..." A small chuckle escaped Erik's lips, surprising none more than him.

Moving his feet uncomfortably, Erik stared down at the carpet. "Well... you must be frozen from that swim. I'm terribly sorry that I subjected you to that... Would you like a bath to warm you up?" Christine nodded in reply. "Very well. I shall make you some tea while you bathe, and then we can talk about... ah, well, we'll see when we get there. The bathroom is right over here." Erik caught one of Christine's hands and walked past two rooms: one was empty except for a bed frame, and the other was obviously his: a large box shaped bed lay within, almost coffin-like in nature. Christine squinted her eyes, trying to adjust her still fuzzy vision to get a better view, but was whisked past in less than a second.

"Here we are. You can have a nice, warm bath and before you know it you'll be out for tea," he grabbed part of her sopping dress, examining it with a scrutinizing eye, "Get yourself out of this as fast as possible. It won't do your health any good to be stuck in something cold and wet. I'll find something suitable for you to wear." Erik awkwardly paused before releasing her arm, turning on his heel and heading back towards the sofa, to presumably what was the kitchen.

Christine's eyes followed his form for the next thirty seconds before he disappeared from her sight. Turning back, the bathroom door opened with a light touch and she peered inside.

The entire room reeked of cleanliness. Everything was in perfect order, and there was a small tube of toothpaste next to a carved toothbrush with bristles on a shelf; several of those newer terry cloth towels were folded in a neat pile, and there was a large, clawed bathtub with two knobs for hot or cold water.

Dropping her wet clothes to the floor in a pile in the corner, Christine stepped into the bathtub and shivered with cold. She hastily turned the hot knob, and was rewarded with searing hot water nailing her in the foot. Jumping back, she nearly slipped before catching herself. Carefully extending her foot, she tested the water with her toe before deeming it a sufficient temperature to bathe in. Waiting for the tub to fill, she settled down with a sigh.

After thoroughly washing blood, dirt, and lake water from her body, Christine simply stayed in the clean fresh water, enjoying herself immensely.

While sitting, she thought long and hard on her journey down. She couldn't really recall anything after discovering the hidden room where the Angel of Music watched operas... it was all kind of a blank until she had woken up down there. How had she gotten there? Had he found her? Why hadn't she remembered him finding her then?

Her brow creased in concentration. Why couldn't she remember something that had happened so recently? Surely her angel would tell her... she was sure they would talk for quite some time, there was so much explaining and apologizing to do! And then maybe afterwards they could make some music together, oh, she had seen a piano! Singing would be wonderful with a piano!

Christine's excitement grew and grew, and as did her fit. In one swift moment, her vision began to go blurry again, and she opened her mouth, but words wouldn't form on her lips and all she could make out was a quiet slur of words. Her limbs again would not cooperate, and she lay in the bathtub, helpless, virtually mute, and with scattered vision.

Erik bustled about the kitchen, reheating his earlier remedy and set about preparing some tea.

A tentative meow came from behind him.

Erik spun around, his spoon pointed at the cat and growling. His eyes locked with those of that ignorant puffball; his arm lowered and he glared menacingly at Sir Marque.

"So... you. You know, you're the reason she exerted herself! Now she's probably going to be incredibly tired and sore and worn out... all because of _you."_ Erik shot the cat another glare. "Think of that when you decided to go on your leisurely stroll to bite off more than you could chew? Know what you're eating before you attack it, fool!"

Still as a statue, Sir Marque remained completely unaffected by Erik's words. In fact, his words seemed to have increased Sir Marque's pompous air, if anything. Sir Marque's tail flicked back and forth, and he continued to glare directly back at Erik.

"So, this is how it's going to work, hm?" Erik knelt down on the floor and looked straight at him, not breaking eye contact the entire time. The pair glared at each other, each calmly sizing up the other, and seeing that this fight had to be won by brute stubbornness.

The tea kettle whistled, jolting Erik, and giving Sir Marque the moment of distraction he had been waiting for. Sir Marque leapt at Erik's leg and once again returned to his work of shredding his pants.

Hands flew around the cat's neck and ripped him off. Growling the entire time and clawing at Erik's hand, Erik lifted him to eye level and scowled. "So, you think my body doesn't have enough scars as it is? Want to add your own? I think not."

The Phantom marched out the room and into his music room. Snatching a box full of sheet music off of a table, he emptied out the papers and promptly flipped the box on top of the cat. Setting a heavy book on top and propping the box up slightly, he left just enough room for air to move underneath, and enough weight to trap the cat until Erik decided his time-out was over.

Hurrying back to the kitchen, he snatched the still whistling tea kettle off the stove. Hastily pouring it into a cup, he made his way to the bathroom and knocked on the bathroom door.

There was no reply.

Erik's brow creased. He rapped on the door again.

Still no reply.

Erik started to feel uneasy.

"Christine? Are you in there?"

Christine tried to raise her head, but she couldn't. It felt like she was being pulled down, and every time she opened her mouth and tried to answer him, no sound came out. She tried to move her limbs, to make some kind of noise, to slosh the water around, but her body remained trapped and she could barely move.

Erik swiveled around, eyes sweeping every room, looking for any sign of Christine. Oh, where had she gone? Had she run off when he was distracted? Some of the traps were still activated in the passageways, she could get hurt! And there were rats everywhere as well... Oh, and he still needed to watch for the poison's effects!

Stopping only to switch shoes - his previous pair were still quite wet from his recent swim - Erik set off in search of his angel.

The lake was calm and quiet. His gondola was still in place... how had she gotten across? Had she found some other way across? It was the only possibility... Shoving the gondola off the shore, Erik leaped inside and paddled across. He hit the other side and set off running down the corridors, going to the only place he thought she could possibly be.

Light from her room lightly illuminated the passage he was in. He stopped directly at the mirror and pressed his hands and forehead against it, desperate for a glimpse of Christine.

She wasn't there...

But Madame Giry and Meg were.

Madame Giry sat on a chair, rubbing her fingers over and over one well worn spot on her cane, while Meg paced across the room.

"Maman, we always have lunch with her on Saturdays! She knows better than to disappear... and nobody has seen her all day long! I'm the last person who saw her, and that was last night. She's been gone for a whole day! Oh Maman, where could she be? She could be in trouble, or lost, or hurt..." Meg's panicked words broke off, and she began running her fingers through her curls in an effort to calm herself.

She exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Where, just where?"

Madame Giry looked up from her cane; "Well, you're not going to find the answer by sitting around whining. There's only one solution: search the room for clues about where she might have gone." Meg perked up, shaking her head vigorously; she then jokingly proceeded to examine each of the pillows for any incriminating evidence.

Rolling her eyes at Meg's antics, Madame Giry stood up and walked over to the dresser; "It's likely there'll be better clues in here than on the pillows Meg, fooling around isn't going to help us find Christine."

Meg's cheeks turned bright red, and she hung her head in embarrassment before shuffling over to Christine's dresser.

Each drawer slid open easily, but revealed absolutely nothing about Christine's whereabouts. There were all of her things: her ballet shoes and clothes, but nothing more personal than that.  
Groaning in frustration, Meg slammed the drawer she had been examining shut.

Several pieces of paper fell out of the dresser.

Meg snatched the papers out of the air during their descent down; she eagerly shuffled them, hoping for some sign of Christine, but found nothing. Meg sighed. "Maman, oh, there's nothing here to help us find her! Only some handwritten sheet music and her stuff..."

Madame Giry's head shot up. "Handwritten sheet music? Let me see!" She grabbed the music from Meg's hands. Her face paled.

"Keep looking. Don't stop until I tell you." Shrugging her shoulders, Meg continued her work.

_How did Christine get this music? Does she know who he is?_ Madame Giry worked with a purpose now, flinging open every drawer within her reach before hurriedly shutting it, finding nothing.

At one of the last drawers, her luck changed. There was something in that drawer: a single red rose with a black ribbon around it.

It was obviously a few days old... but that black ribbon trademark was proof that they knew each other, quite well, she expected, if Erik was giving her roses. That meant he likely had something to do with her disappearance...

If she was with him, she would be perfectly safe. Erik was responsible enough with things he cared about, and he knew the Opera House like the back of his hand. However, the catacombs beneath the Opera House were not a place one wanted to be if they didn't know the way...

"Meg... you said you were the last one to see her?" Meg nodded. "Err... what exactly happened when you last saw her? Did she say anything about a suitor?"

"Oh, yes, she did! I accused her of having a suitor, and she didn't deny it! That little scoundrel... anyways, she was making some kind of joke of all the questions I asked about him, and we were about to leave... when she told me she was ill and couldn't go. So, she's with her suitor somewhere?"

Meg picked up a book and repeatedly whacked herself in the head with it. "AGGHHH TYPICAL CHRISTINE."

"Don't worry Meg, if that is who she's with, she's in good hands. We'll just have to continue our lunch without her, unfortunately. Let's head out."

The drawer slammed shut, Meg was dragged out the door; the pair headed outside.

Madame Giry suddenly stopped and smacked her forehead. "Oh, I forgot, the owner of our favorite cafe is out of Paris for the week. Would you go see if there are any other cafes that look good? I'll stay here until you find one. You know my joints aren't what they used to be, I prefer to spend as little time in the cold as possible, else they ache."

"Okay I'll come get you when I find one."

Madame Giry smiled and waved goodbye - before promptly turning and heading up to the private boxes.

Meg walked back into the Opera Populaire less than a second later. "Maman? What about that crepe place two blocks over? Maman?" Her mother's figure slipped around a set corner off in the distance; she was going towards the private boxes... What was she doing there?

The little ballerina followed at a safe distance, curious as to what her secretive mother was up to.

Slipping to the back of the theater, Madame Giry slipped past the manager's office -where she heard quite the argument raging- and up a floor to the private boxes. Walking down the golden hall, Madame Giry was constantly turning her head over her shoulder, and her nervousness was showing despite her effort to hide it. She stumbled over her feet, whacked vases of flowers with her cane, and had the startled look of a hunted animal.

Madame Giry walked past the next few boxes, heading closer and closer to the front. With one last glance over her shoulder, the ballet mistress dove into Box 5 and poked her head up nervously, completely unaware of her daughter tailing her a few boxes behind.

Madame Giry scanned the area around her; she was all alone. She let out a sigh of relief - the last thing she needed right now was more inquiries about her knowledge of the Opera Ghost... Slipping to one of the pillars, she poked around the carvings, and found what she was looking for: the carved head of a snake.

She smirked as she saw it. Oh, Erik always was one to enjoy such twisted jokes: the way to find him was by following the very same creature that ended up driving Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden... To find him, you had to follow the path of the Devil's servant.

Tapping it lightly on the head, the wall shifted to reveal a small ladder inside. Madame Giry smirked as she began her ascent into the Phantom's personal box.

Meg just looked on, stunned. This was the Ghost's box... So then that ladder must be the Ghost's too. Her mother knew of the Phantom's secrets? She must know him as well... Meg shuddered. There had been several deaths over the years that had all been attributed to him... Was that where Christine was right now?

While she thought, the wall slid closed.

No! Meg ran over to the pillar, poking it all over to no avail.

Meg paused and collected her thoughts, rolling back on her heel and spinning in small circle while she considered her course of action. Thinking back to her mother, she concluded the best way to find the ladder was to imitate her exact actions.

A cane... she needed a cane.

Kneeling down on the ground, Meg spotted a piece of loosened wooden molding along the base of the wall. Pulling at each end, the piece easily sprung free. Smiling in victory, she went back into the hallway, and began copying her mother's movements.

Jumping into the box, Meg glanced around and stood up, sweeping her cane around and exaggerating her steps, to make sure there was no hidden button in the floor she was missing.  
Meg sidled up to the pillar, and tapped all around the carvings with the tip of the wooden block.

Nothing happened.

She tried again.

Still nothing happened.

Her breathing slowly increased, as anger began to flood through her veins. Whacking the cane to and fro, Meg jumped and swirled from side to side of the pillar in a mad dance, hoping to in the random movements find the spot her mother had touched.

Back and forth, up and down, swirling round and round the pillar, Meg's touches mounted in intensity, moving from the small taps she had initially done, to a sturdy rap, before culminating in a mad free for all slamming the cane as hard as she could against the wall and all over.

And still nothing.

Defeated, she slumped against the wall, holding her head. What to do now... She lifted her head and looked across the stage, turning to look over the seats, only to find a very curious Vicomte de Chagny looking at her from the back row.

**A/N: As aforementioned, it was really difficult to write this chapter. I am extremely sorry for the wait. I would really appreciate any advice on the chapter or just any thoughts so far, as they do help with writer's block (and therefore time) and in improving my writing style.**

**Seriously, super sorry about the wait. There's no reason I should have let the writer's block and what not continue so long. ******

**Thanks! ****  
****~Partypenguina3**


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